


Ampersand

by Indybaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Angst, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock, Babies, Beta John, Blow Jobs, Bonding, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Family Feels, Friendship, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Life Partners, M/M, Masturbation, Mpreg, No Incest, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Omega Mycroft, Omega Verse, Parenthood, Pining, Platonic Bonding, Polyamory, Pre-Poly, Pregnancy, Requited Love, Sex, Sexual Frustration, Slow Burn, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-22 12:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 127
Words: 272,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7439126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>John isn’t all that interested when he finds out that Mycroft is pregnant. Mary just left, things with Sherlock are difficult, and nothing is the same, most of all not John himself. But then there is a bond needed, a baby born, and it was never meant to happen like this, but somehow...</i> </p><p>Family, love, sex, and making it work - the complicated way. Post season three Omega Verse AU!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (John)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my ‘what if Mycroft was pregnant on the tarmac’ comfort-story that somehow drastically got out of hand. I started writing this in November 2015, so it’s not compliant with the Christmas special or what we know of season four. 
> 
> This story is tagged as slow burn, and it really is. I absolutely definitely promise you that there will be love and sex scenes between both pairings, and that it will all work out for everyone involved! It just takes them a good while to get there *g* 
> 
> Warnings: Hospital scenes, mention of a potential miscarriage, mention of fertility treatments, pregnancy-related physical and medical details, postnatal depression. 
> 
> Endless thanks to Pickles7437 for her beta work, and Jie_Jie for her Brit-picking, you two are amazing <3
> 
> Fanart for this story: [cover made by Aion](http://i.imgur.com/XKhOMl3.png), [cover made by Hamstermoon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8067286) thank you! 
> 
> This story is completely written. I will post a new chapter every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Enjoy!

 

 

John has been back in Baker Street for all of three days. 

He’s sitting in the kitchen, having breakfast. A dusty tin of beans he found in the back of the cupboard and heated up. With bread, not home-made like Mary’s always was, but the cheapest kind from Tesco. It’s stale - god knows how long it’s been here. 

There’s a slight murmur coming up from Mrs. Hudson’s radio downstairs, the eight AM BBC news. 

A familiar smell coming from one of Sherlock’s test tubes. Embalming fluid, maybe. Some rotting human tissue. 

There’s the bathroom door opening, and Sherlock’s steps that grow slower as he walks closer, as if he’s dreading to come into view. John chews his toast, swallows, and has a sip of tea, before he says, “Morning.” 

Sherlock nods, a quick, uncertain thing. He’s dressed, all ready to go then. “I’m going to the morgue, I need samples. A male’s large intestine.”

“Hm.” John looks back at his breakfast and keeps on eating. His bathrobe sleeve nearly crosses his plate as he reaches for his tea again.

Sherlock’s still standing there, but there’s nothing more to say. John can’t come along to the morgue, if that’s even what Sherlock wants. He has to go to work. 

But Sherlock does that now, leaves space between them where there shouldn’t be any. 

John can feel Sherlock’s eyes linger on him. He’s not sure what he’s looking at. _You faked your death and left me. I got married. You killed Magnussen. Mary left._ It’s all fucked up, it’s all... 

Blank. 

Eventually, Sherlock moves away and grabs his coat. John raises his voice before Sherlock’s fully gone, “You want something from the shop?” 

There’s a pause. A slight shift, and then Sherlock replies, “Milk.” 

John almost bursts out a laugh, but then stops himself. It’s not a joke. Not anymore. 

Sherlock waits for another moment, and then there’s the sound of the door falling shut. The thuds as he races down the stairs. 

John looks at the last cold dregs of his tea. He could make another cup. He could... do anything. He puts it down. 

It all feels so goddamn strange, somehow.

Sharing a flat again. 

John sits there for a bit. Listens to the distant radio. There’s the sound of the door for a second time, and steps on the stairs. Sherlock probably forgot something, or it’s Mrs. Hudson butting in. But it’s Mycroft who walks in. “Good morning, John.” 

Oh. John glances outside. “You just missed him.” 

Mycroft looks like crap, it must have been a late night. War somewhere, or elections. John’s known Mycroft for years but he still doesn’t know what exactly he has a hand in. 

“You want a cuppa or something?” The kettle’s just boiled. 

“No, thank you. Would you give this to him?” Mycroft holds a file out. His eyes are lingering on John’s half-eaten plate. 

“Yeah.” John’s surprised Mycroft even bothered to bring the file over himself. Usually it’s one of his assistants, looking scary and dressed in black. Maybe he thought it needed personal attention. Or he wanted to check up on Sherlock, more likely. 

Mycroft turns right around. “We’ll speak later.” 

“Hm, bye.” John needs to shower after this, and get to work at the clinic. He’ll be there by nine unless the tube’s busy. It’s more of a commute from Baker Street, now, too far to bike. He might sell it. He can use the money. 

John’s thinking about work when he hears Mycroft’s sharp intake of breath - John looks up. “You all right?” 

Mycroft’s holding on to the doorframe. “ _Yes._ ” It’s said authoritatively. 

He sort of... sways. 

John screeches his chair back and gets over to him just in time to grab the crook of his arm. “Yeah, you don’t look all right.” Mycroft’s brow is pearled with sweat. He’s as pale as a sheet. John half-pulls him to the sofa, and sits him down. He checks his pulse. 

It’s fast and weak. 

“You going to pass out?” Mycroft’s eyes are closed, and his breathing is shallow, but he’s conscious.

Mycroft swallows dryly. “I’m uncertain.”

John looks around. “You need a bowl?” He’s not about to clean vomit off the floorboards, it’s Sherlock’s turn. Forever, in fact - after that one time with the bile. There’s still a bleached spot on the woodwork. 

Mycroft raises a hand, and holds it over his eyes. “That won’t be necessary, I think.” 

Fine. John goes to the kitchen, and opens the fridge, looking for something cold. All he can see is a bag of toenails, and a tomato with white patches growing off it. John wets a tea towel instead. 

Mycroft’s sunk back into the cushions. His eyes are closed. He’s breathing carefully. 

“Here.” John presses the towel to Mycroft’s hand. 

Mycroft takes it, dabs his face with it, and then slowly opens his eyes. He seems ashamed, for a second. He says, carefully, “My apologies.” 

John sits down on the table across from him. “Better here than on the stairs.” It’s the flu, maybe? It’s not the season for it, but it’s hardly unusual. Unless he’s eaten some bad sushi. “You’ve been to see a GP?” 

Mycroft’s lips thin. “No need to worry, I assure you.” 

“Right.” John’s not about to question him. He probably goes to the fanciest practise in London. 

Mycroft’s hands tremble as he folds the towel and puts it to the side. He stays seated, though, so John assumes he’s going to need a minute. 

Mrs. Hudson’s radio’s moved on to the weather forecast now. Seventy percent chance of rain. There’s the occasional sound from the street.

Mycroft’s breathing. 

There’s a very faint, sweet smell coming from him. Mycroft’s an omega, and this close by it’s obvious. Mycroft’s scent lingers in his nose. John glances at him - strange, he always thought he was on suppressants.

Sherlock is, as well. John saw them again when he moved in and he opened the bathroom cabinet to put his razor in there. In-between the antiseptic and the paracetamol. 

Even with them, Sherlock smells like an alpha. Something slightly burned. Something risky. 

John’s heard clients make a low moaning sound when Sherlock walks up to them. He has seen them whimper, and get goose bumps when Sherlock deduces them. Sherlock pretends not to notice, although John’s sure that he does. He just doesn’t care, that’s it. 

Sherlock doesn’t care. 

John looks at Mycroft again. Maybe he’s been sick for a while and couldn’t keep his suppressants down. He’s not close to a heat though, it doesn’t smell like it. Thank god. John wouldn’t want to deal with a Holmes in heat. 

Or well, not this one, anyway. Sherlock... right. John looks down at his hands. His bathrobe sleeves have small holes in them. It’s the same one he wore here, in Baker Street. Five years ago. 

Mycroft moves. He seems determined to get going as soon as he can, his fingers grip the side of the sofa, and he pushes himself up. John’s willing to bet that he’s still dizzy, but Mycroft stares him down. “I would appreciate it if you could keep this to yourself.” 

John gets the feeling that there’s an or else in there. “Sure.” As embarrassing as it must be to him, ‘Mycroft nearly fainted on our sofa this morning’ is hardly world news. 

Mycroft nods. “John.” He bends cautiously to collect his umbrella, and leaves. 

 

-

 

John gets to work only ten minutes late. 

They barely look at him, these days. Mary wasn’t that well-liked, but John’s the man who left her at eight-and-a-half months pregnant, and that doesn’t exactly make him popular. 

His first patient has gastroenteritis. The next wants a prescription for her rheumatoid arthritis medicine. Next one’s a cold, the one after that cold sores, then a urinary tract infection, followed by someone with allergies playing up. It’s all a blur, really. John’s not even sure he’s a decent GP, most days. It’s all basic things, people with their lacklustre little problems. He can do it with his eyes closed. 

Fourteenth patient of the day thinks that she’s pregnant. She’s been trying for a while, she says. Her last heat was a month ago. John draws her blood, says the blood results will be back in three days, ignores her hopeful smile, and adds her file to the pile. Then it’s a kid with a rash, and an elderly man with nothing wrong with him except the need to chat, and... 

John tries not to remember the woman. 

With Mary, it was Sherlock who figured out that she was pregnant. At the wedding. John hates the memory of that moment now. The dance after. That frantic push of _happy, be happy, this is supposed to be the best moment of your life_. 

It wasn’t. 

 

-

 

John goes to the shop after work. Sherlock’s not going to do it, of course. He won’t pick up what they need on his own, same thing as it always was. John would hate it if it weren’t so familiar. 

If he hadn’t longed for this exact thing for years. 

It’s busy, and John’s being dragged along into the rush of people trying to pick up just that one thing or other for dinner. He doesn’t even know which aisle he’s in, just that he is shuffling around a screaming toddler and then a group of tourists with carry-ons gaping at the jam, when his eye falls on a packet of biscuits. Digestives, blue wrapper. 

It was the only thing that Mary could keep down first thing in the morning for weeks. 

John walks past them. No use thinking of that now, she’s gone, it’s all gone. It was all a lie. Not his baby. He gets bread and milk and cheese and whatever else he can think of instead. 

He’s waiting in line - there’s a product being called up somewhere and it’s taking bloody forever - when his phone buzzes. 

John considers ignoring it. Not a lot of people use his number, these days. But he shuffles the food in his arms around to reach his pocket, and checks. Sherlock. “Pick up more files on your way back, Diogenes club. SH” 

John sighs. He texts back, “Fine. JW” He doesn’t know why he’s bothering, really. Sherlock could go get them himself, but then he’s too lazy to do it, probably. London is hell at this time of evening. 

It’s started raining, too. 

Traffic is at a near stand-still, there are pedestrians and umbrellas everywhere, it’s a tangled mess of people just trying to get home. 

John takes the tube. He gets sucked along with the stream of commuters, wet coats and the damp, blasting heat. He stands in a car surrounded by men in suits, a young couple with awkward backpacks, and a group of elderly Indian women, and holds on. 

Trying not to think. 

John doesn’t know if the files are for a case, he didn’t look at whatever Mycroft brought over this morning. Might be nothing at all. He wants it to be something, though. A case. Anything to make that uneasy itch of _every fucking day is like this, now, empty_ go away. 

He gets off at Westminster. The rain has picked up. It’s dark, and the streets are shining with water and car lights leaving long light trails on the road. 

By the time he’s at the Diogenes club, the carrier bags are digging into his fingers, and there are raindrops rolling down his hair. 

He rings the buzzer. Either the attendant’s been warned in advance - CCTV - or John wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a photo of himself somewhere in the Diogenes Club saying ‘let this man in’, because the door opens to a butler-type in a suit, and he gets ushered in. 

John’s aware that he’s out of place here, carrying the shopping. Dripping onto the furniture. His wet shoes sink into the deep carpet, and he rustles his bags loud enough that some of the geriatric men look up from their newspapers and brandies, and frown at the intrusion. 

Mycroft’s not in one of the sitting rooms. They’re taking a lift down this time. 

The attendant stands perfectly still, not a trace of judgement there. Probably comes with the job, John thinks, _thou shall not think_. 

They end up in a long corridor with several reinforced doors. The attendant opens one of them, steps back, and there’s Mycroft. Behind a desk, with a portrait of the queen over his shoulder. Properly framed. 

John closes the door behind him, and it falls shut with an ominous-sounding heavy click. It feels like a bunker. Of course it does, John’s not even sure which of the two is the biggest drama queen - Sherlock or Mycroft. “Watched too many Bond films as a kid, did you?”

Mycroft tilts his head. “It is practical to have an office here as well.” 

John walks closer, and puts his shopping down on the floor. Mycroft eyes his bags with faint distaste while he rifles though the files on his desk. Probably never shopped at a Tesco’s in his life, John thinks. 

Actually, he looks apprehensive all over. Still pale, too. “You feeling better now?” 

Mycroft smiles a perfunctory smile. “Much, thank you.” 

He’s lying. John can see the sheen of sweat on his face, and the careful way he’s moving, as if too fast of a movement might make him nauseous again. John grins, not sure why, just that he’s catching Mycroft Holmes in a lie for once. “Yeah, you’ll have to do better than that, lying to a doctor.” 

Mycroft eyes him intently for a short moment. 

John can smell him again, omega. Strange, how he’s never noticed before. It’s very sweet. Mycroft holds out a pile of files. “That is all.” 

And suddenly... the scent, John’s smelled that earlier today. On the young woman with the hopeful smile and the heat a month ago. He’s sure of it. Nausea, fainting - oh. 

Mycroft’s _pregnant_. 

John stares at him. 

“Yes?” Mycroft’s still holding out the file, looking impatient now. 

John says, “Morning sickness, is it?”

Mycroft face goes carefully blank. 

“Sorry, it’s…” John wants to say something about doctor’s instinct and force of habit, but it all fades when he sees Mycroft’s controlled swallow. He’s gone even paler. Shit. “You going to be sick?” 

Mycroft looks him over. 

John looks around. “Maybe a bin…”

“No.” Mycroft’s voice halts. He hesitates, then says, clearly, “You are right, John. I am…” he pauses briefly, as if he can’t quite make the word fit, “...expecting.” 

Really? John blinks, and then laughs. “Well! That’s...?” _good?_ Or – John glances at Mycroft, is it good? “You’re rather...” _old to be having your first._ Right. “Not someone I’d, um, expected to have a kid?” 

Mycroft sighs. He still looks vaguely nauseous. “You do not know me well, John.” 

Yeah. That’s probably fair. John can’t stop looking at him. Pregnant, how did that happen, exactly? And whose is it? Does he even have an alpha? 

Mycroft eyes him. “I expect you to keep this information to yourself.” 

John can’t imagine what Sherlock is going to say to this, but he’s sure it’s going to be interesting. “You don’t want me to tell Sherlock?”

“No. And he needs look at these files as soon as possible.” Mycroft looks stern, but John is still stuck on Mycroft, of all people, _pregnant_. 

Mycroft’s frown deepens, and John gets the hint. “Yeah, I’ll...” He takes the file. “Do that.” 

John collects his shopping, he pulls the heavy door shut behind him, and gets found again by the attendant who escorts him up. 

Well, that was weird. 

He diagnosed a pregnancy from smell alone, though, not too bad for a beta doctor - John feels pretty smug about that. Saw through Mycroft Holmes’ lies, that’s a first, he should probably get a badge of some sort for that. Honour from the queen. 

They walk past the collection of old men reading again. Do they know? Does anyone? Is it a secret of state or something? John grins. 

It’s still raining as he walks out. Actually, there’s another Tesco down this street - he could have just done his shopping here instead of bothering with dragging it all along. 

John thinks on whether to face the tube, or just not bother and walk. He’s wet already anyway. 

And then he stops, and sighs. 

He turns around, and walks into the Tesco. 

Finds the biscuit aisle. 

It’s the same attendant waiting at the door of the Diogenes club, with the same blank expression. John doesn’t even ask, just walks in fast enough that the guy has to keep up with him. Back down in the lift. The man does give him a somewhat questioning look this time, but John ignores him. He’s not really thinking about what he’s doing, actually. 

Down the hall, John opens the door for himself this time, and Mycroft looks up. “John? Did you forget something?” 

John opens his shopping bag, and walks closer. He takes them out, and puts them on Mycroft’s desk - digestives, blue wrapper. There are drops of rain still standing out on the plastic.

Mycroft frowns at him. 

And right, John does feel stupid even coming back, but here it is. “It’s, ah…” he breathes. _Mary._ “Helps the nausea. They’re easy to keep down, it has to be that brand, don’t ask me why.” 

Mycroft looks back at the digestives with something startled in his eyes. 

“So, congratulations, and all that.” 

John nods at him. 

And then leaves. 

He walks back to Baker Street instead of taking the tube again. It takes a cold half an hour, during which he gets wet to the skin, the water soaking his hair and rolling in icy drops down his neck. It’s even in his shoes, his socks feel as if they’re sopping when he walks up the stairs to 221b. 

John walks in, and puts the shopping onto the kitchen counter. Sherlock doesn’t even look up from the experiment he’s doing, something involving Petri dishes, so John slams Mycroft’s files down next to him. “Here.” 

He got rained on for that. He got to deal with Mycroft being pregnant, the least he can get from Sherlock is a thank you. 

But John barely gets a look in return for his trouble. A quick flick of Sherlock’s eyes. A hint of his smell. “Hm.” 

Next time he can get his own damn milk.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. (Sherlock)

 

 

John came back. He walked in with a suitcase and Sherlock didn’t know what to say. 

He still doesn’t. 

John is here, in Baker Street. Sherlock can hear the creak of John getting out of bed in the morning, and the rumble of his footsteps on the stairs. He can see John’s bare feet on the floor, his toes lazily curling and uncurling as he reads the paper. John cooks, the scents drifting through the air, and Sherlock catches a glimpse of John’s back as he stands in the kitchen.

He never thought that he would have this again. 

John shops and fills the cupboards. John brings his books and his clothes, first one bag at a time, and then everything in an afternoon. He ends the lease on the flat he shared with Mary. He is here to stay for a while. Or at least until he finds someone else - whatever kick Sherlock gives him, it is temporary, Sherlock does recognise that. John is here until the next Mary. 

John is still angry, too. It’s in his shoulders, in his sighs, in the edge to his voice. But Sherlock knows what John wants from him. He takes a series of cases, anything that sounds remotely interesting. Sherlock drags John along from one crime scene to the next, because it makes John feel alive. It’s what John needs, so Sherlock provides it. 

They stop an Armenian smuggling ring. They infiltrate a gang. They find a stolen car, a priceless clock, and a pet poodle. 

At times Sherlock still feels the scar of Mary’s gunshot throb. 

He doesn’t care who stole Grandma’s pearls, or the family cat. About an embezzling secretary or a sociopathic surgeon. It’s still obvious to him, so he says what he sees, solves it, and doesn’t stay around to bask in being right, he just lets John do that bit. 

It makes him happy. 

 

-

 

It’s evening and they’ve just finished a portion of chow mein between them, John dabbing his face with a napkin, his lips greasy with oil, when Sherlock gets a message from Mycroft that says, “I believe it is time I come over for a visit. M”

Sherlock immediately types out a reply of “Don’t bother. SH” Whatever it is that makes Mycroft want to come over, it’s bound to be annoying. 

Maybe it’s a case, but Mycroft doesn’t need to come by for that. Plus, Sherlock’s still tired from the last one, three days of surveillance on an office building and it turned out to be the night cleaning staff all along - boring.

Sherlock looks up from his phone and warns John, “Mycroft’s coming.” 

“Yeah?” Something in John’s body language is strange. As if he knew.

John even goes to open the door downstairs, which Sherlock knows for a fact that John has never done before, or not for Mycroft, anyway. Sherlock can hear them talking to each other on the stairs. 

Sherlock is ready for it - Mycroft. The usual speeches. The pretend sorrow, the disappointment, the idle treats. 

John walks in first, but he’s smiling, which is weird. 

Mycroft walks up behind John. He’s tired, that’s obvious at a glance. He’s lost weight as well, the diet finally working, is it? But no, not a diet, he’s been sick. Sherlock feels a faint flash of worry, quickly suppressed. 

Judging by John’s expression, it’s unlikely to be an intervention. So, “Case?” 

“Not today, no.” Mycroft seems faintly apprehensive. 

Sherlock stands up with a rising sense of alarm. What is it? There’s something different in Mycroft’s smell. Hormonal, yes, but also chemical – medication of some sort? Sherlock scans Mycroft. 

Then gets close, and sniffs the air around him while Mycroft gives him an appalled look. “Sherlock, _must you_?” 

John is laughing at it in the distance, but it’s all background noise to what Sherlock is deducing. Hormones, been sick, medical, but there’s something else... Sherlock looks at Mycroft, stunned. _That can’t be._

Mycroft only sighs. “Yes.” And then walks past him, and sits down in John’s chair. 

Who, why, when? Sherlock is still standing there, his mind racing. “You’re...” 

John asks Mycroft, “ _Tea?_ ” and the laughter is obvious in his voice. 

Mycroft nods, and even he is smiling now. “Thank you, John.”

The two of them together seem united in this. This isn’t a surprise to John, and Mycroft knows it isn’t, they were waiting for him to deduce it, and that’s why they are both amused. Sherlock turns towards John, something angry in his chest, disbelief, and says, “You knew.” 

“Yes.” John looks at Mycroft, and grins. “I figured it out, what, weeks ago?” He seems proud of himself. 

Sherlock looks at John, and the cogs in his mind spin. John knew, why would John know, why is John happy, and then... Sherlock can feel his chest turn to ice. Of course. “It’s yours.” 

John frowns. “No... Sherlock.” He half-laughs, as if it was a joke. “It’s not _mine_.” 

Mycroft adds from his seat, aghast, “It is _most definitely_ not!” 

No, no it’s not. Stupid. Just like the wedding, only then Sherlock was wrong as well, if only then he would have realised that that child wasn’t John’s... 

Slowly, John’s smile crumples. He looks at him with a serious expression. “Sherlock, it’s not.” John glances at Mycroft. “Really.” 

Sherlock can feel John’s concern rushing like water over him. He thinks about curling his fingers around John’s sleeve, holding him, just for one exhale. Instead Sherlock makes himself smile. “Of course not.” It sounds hollow to his own ears. “Why would it be?” 

He can’t look at John, it feels too sharp, the memory. So Sherlock turns to Mycroft instead. He says the obvious thing, “You’re not bonded.”

“I am not.” Mycroft replies calmly. 

Then how is he pregnant? Mycroft’s lost four pounds, there are dark shadows under his eyes, he is tired but stable, otherwise he wouldn’t have come here. There’s the smell, again, his body chemistry is announcing it loud and clear. Sherlock’s not sure, but it’s a logical leap, a needed precaution when having a child alone. “You’re on chemical bonding hormones?” 

Mycroft turns to John, and says delicately, “I believe I could use that cup of tea?” 

John starts. He’d obviously forgotten that he offered. “Yeah, right.” He walks into the kitchen, leaving them alone. 

Sherlock sits down across from Mycroft, and tries to focus. Mycroft is leaning back, projecting an air of false confidence. He’s still faintly uneasy, Sherlock can tell. Odd. Why would he care? 

Sherlock can hear John opening and closing cupboards, making tea. He takes a breath. “Leaving a legacy, are we?” 

Mycroft parries, quickly, as if he was expecting the comment, “I want to raise a child. There is nothing unusual about that.” 

Sherlock doesn’t have to ask why he did it. Of course Mycroft would put his obsessive, controlling, perfectionist self into something else. Someone he can influence. Sherlock can feel his irritation rise. Nothing unusual, what does he think he is doing? “Didn’t get enough the first time around?” Sherlock eyes him. “Want to see if you can do _better_?”

Mycroft sighs. “I was seven years old when you were born, Sherlock. I was a child myself.” 

He never seemed like one. Mycroft didn’t laugh, or play. Mycroft was everything Sherlock wasn’t and couldn’t be. Cruel in his superiority. 

Mycroft hesitates. Then says, “My child will be cared for, I assure you.” 

_As opposed to what we were?_

Sherlock doesn’t answer. 

In the kitchen, the kettle hisses loudly. 

Sherlock’s eyes drift to Mycroft’s stomach, briefly. There’s nothing there he can see yet. He says, knowing that it’ll annoy Mycroft, “You used a donor.” 

Mycroft’s face pulls. So yes. 

“Dead, probably. Safer that way.”

John picks that moment to come back, looking between them hesitantly. “Um.” He hands a cup of tea to Mycroft, who accepts it with a small nod. “Thank you, John.” 

John glances at the door. He is clearly wondering whether he should leave them alone. He is about to make an excuse of some sort, when Mycroft says, “I heard from the Armenians.”

John looks back. 

“The man that the two of you locked into a shipping container spent two days on the sea without food or water, and was apparently quite content to be taken into custody after all.” 

Sherlock had not even thought about that, but he files it away as solved. Good. 

“Perhaps next time try not to let your suspects be shipped out onto international waters?” Mycroft is saying it as an offering, a barb to be replied to. Theatre for John, too, if he wants it. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and dutifully replies, “These things just _happen_ , Mycroft.” 

It makes John laugh, and Sherlock can feel the slight sense of relief that brings. It means that John has forgiven him his erroneous deduction.

Mycroft smiles lightly at it as well. 

John sits down, and Sherlock lets Mycroft and John talk, something about the case, he doesn’t listen. 

A child. Without a bond, why risk it? Why would he want to? 

Mycroft does not stay long. He simply throws him a “Sherlock,” that Sherlock forgets to return until Mycroft’s already left the room. He was thinking about brains. Then nerve growth. He wonders if Molly has a foetus handy to biopsy. Will she be disturbed if he asks? Is unborn life somehow more precious? Sherlock does not see the difference, but he considers that she might - sentiment. 

He’ll have to bribe her. 

Sherlock is not sure how much time has passed after Mycroft’s departure, he’s thinking about cell division, when John asks, cautiously, “So, how are you feeling about that then?” 

Sherlock pulls himself out of his mind. “What?”

“Mycroft having a kid. You’ll be an uncle, won’t you?” 

Sherlock hadn’t even thought about that. John smiles at his expression. Remembering John’s laugh, Sherlock says, “I expect that I’ll get used to it.” What do uncles do? Not a lot, probably. 

But John’s smile fades. He says, trying to suppress something tense in his voice, “And why exactly did you think that it was mine?” 

Sherlock doesn’t need to think about it. “You were...” he looks away. “Happy.” 

He knows that it was utterly stupid. He never should have presumed. Worse, Mycroft will have understood his mistake for what it was. Emotion. It was incompetent to deduce that. 

John says, not understanding, “Well, yeah, it’s good news, right, something... good?”

It would be good news to John, of course. It is what John wanted, a child. It’s what he didn’t get. Sherlock swallows his reply, and says instead, “Yes, good.”

The feeling churns in his stomach.

 

-

 

Sherlock lies on the sofa. 

It’s early morning, and light is filtering through the curtains in a mocking comment on how he didn’t sleep at all. His eyes burn, but he can’t close them.

He stays here at night sometimes just so he can hear John wake up. Watch from underneath his eyelashes while pretending to sleep. See John stumble around in his old dressing gown. Listen to John making tea, and eat toast as if it’s a job that he needs to finish, crunch after crunch with quiet determination. 

Sherlock can smell John, faintly. John’s scent is always here. It’s his anchor, his one thing to hold onto so hard his body can’t feel anything else. Sherlock digs his nails into the palms of his hands as he lies on the sofa, seemingly relaxed. 

John even mumbles, “Lucky sod, wish I could sleep in.” 

Sherlock doesn’t move, and John leaves for work. He leaves Sherlock with a silence that doesn’t echo, that isn’t even silent, there’s sound and information all around, but it buzzes in his ears, it waves in front of his eyes when he doesn’t close them, the floor, the walls, the ceiling. 

John is back.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft never assumed that he would have children.

He briefly thought about it when he was younger, as he did all things, but in a logical, detached way. He saw his life and ambitions and placed the image of said children - or, for that matter, an alpha - in it, and decided it impractical. Improbable, as well, highly unlikely to ever be in his future. And that was it. 

He was distantly aware of the possibility that he could carry a child if he so wished, but he did not feel any regret for choosing not to. He already raised Sherlock, after all. At times he felt as if he was still raising Sherlock. Still responsible for Sherlock’s every misstep and fall, still there, waiting in the shadows to help him up. Still worrying endlessly for Sherlock’s wellbeing, feeling regret for the pure waste of such a marvellous mind. 

And then John Watson appeared, and Sherlock found himself a friend. Some stability as well, for as far as that was possible. Mycroft was glad to see it happening. John was good for Sherlock. 

Until Sherlock chose to fake his death, of course. It was an understandable decision, but those were two long years for Mycroft as well. 

Mycroft has always known that if Sherlock were ever to leave, he would miss him dearly. That caring is a disadvantage. Mycroft has observed, and taught himself that lesson early on and with great seriousness – bonds have the potential to ruin a person. It is much more logical to keep others at a distance, and to minimise the personal risk. 

But yet Sherlock’s absence leaves an emptiness that he did not feel before. Or perhaps he simply did not notice. 

He feels… wistful. 

The first thing he considers would be the simplest - a lover would not be impossible to find. But as soon as Mycroft thinks it, he rejects the idea. He is quite done with such useless entanglements. He is not blind to the possibility of it bringing him some pleasure, it is just that the downsides outweigh any potential joy.

It takes over a year before he even allows himself to think it, what he truly wishes for. 

A child. 

Mycroft immediately chides himself. It would be selfish to have a child simply because he finds his life to be lacking. Procreation is the ultimate selfishness, a person of one’s own, a small mind to shape in one’s own image, naturally it is an attractive prospect to anyone. It does not mean that it is the right thing to do. 

Raising a child in his position seems like it would be a folly as well. Children require constant care and attention, and there is no way he can spare the time. Mycroft is highly successful, influential, and he has always chosen his career above any interpersonal entanglements. He enjoys his quiet evenings, the peace of his house. He always has. 

But the thought lingers. 

 

-

 

When after two years of absence Sherlock needs to be brought back, Mycroft goes to collect him, and it is worth every effort. But, and he had not accounted for this, Sherlock _sees_ , when he looks at him. 

Sherlock deduces that Mycroft does not feel whole. That he is lonely. 

Mycroft denies it, of course. 

It is good to have Sherlock back. No need for shadows when Sherlock will, albeit reluctantly, recognise him as his brother. No need to lament the misuse of Sherlock’s mind when Sherlock is solving cases and making a career for himself. Sherlock calls him for support occasionally, and Mycroft finds himself comforted by it. Sherlock will always be his brother, but Mycroft does not need to raise him any further. At last they have found some equilibrium between them. 

There is the matter of John’s bride, of course. The last of Moriarty’s influence, which is deeply regretful, but Mycroft has it under control, and it will be handled soon enough. 

All of it will. 

And so he allows himself to research. At age forty-two Mycroft reads up on hormone routines and percentages with a carefully detached sense of interest. He sees the list of every medical step it would take to have a child unbonded, alone.

And considers it. 

He has enough money, naturally. Enough influence that he could easily scale back his work hours. Enough people working for him to deal with certain issues. Enough... everything. 

Mycroft mentally runs through every possibility, every detail that might go wrong.

And only then takes the first step. 

There is a series of doctors and tests. It is both invasive and deeply uncomfortable, his body becomes an object that is required to function, and it might or it might not. There are daily injections of hormones. 

It makes him feel uneven. It is jarring, to wish for a thing. It opens one up and exposes something uncertain to the light. 

On his first try, the implantation fails. 

When Mycroft sits in his parent’s kitchen at Christmas, between childhood memories and a still-healing Sherlock, he can feel his anger flare. Their parents were so very oblivious in raising both Sherlock and himself, deeply cruel in both their misunderstanding and their good-will. He vows to do better. 

If, _if_ he is ever given the chance. 

Which seems unlikely considering his age. His unbonded state, as well. He was warned not to hope too much. 

So he does not touch his stomach and wish for a child the way he imagines some people would do. The naïve, the clueless. No, hope is a dangerous thing, and Mycroft does not indulge it. 

 

-

 

And then Sherlock shoots Magnussen. 

Mycroft deals with the terror of it. He stays with Sherlock, and arranges what needs to be done. A week of negotiating, a false goodbye on the tarmac, a faked message from Moriarty, it is all quite simple in the end really. 

Nothing that he cannot handle. 

Except that in the middle of that week, he takes a pregnancy test that slowly turns positive. 

Mycroft arranges Mary’s departure, and he does not breathe easy until she is gone, until he knows that Sherlock is unharmed, and that John has moved back to Baker Street. 

That it will all return to what it was meant to be. 

Morning sickness hits him soon after. Mycroft had expected it, of course, but still it is an enormous bother. He orders agents around on his phone from bed. He, in the middle of meetings, stands up, excuses himself, goes to vomit in the bathroom with cold sweat rolling over his spine, shaking and trembling... and then goes back in to discuss the budget cuts. 

It is manageable, he tells himself. 

But as much as he did foresee the physical discomfort, the exhaustion is worse than he had allowed for. He gets through the day in a wavering, undefined state, simply to collapse into bed again. He finds it disconcerting. He needs his mind, and he needs the control it brings, as well. He ups security on Sherlock. He denies himself the constant temptation to check up on him, and instead stays away. 

Mycroft had timed his visit to Baker Street exactly in order to avoid Sherlock, but he did not count on staying long enough for John to notice anything wrong with him. Mycroft has been sick on and off for days by then, and he overestimated his ability to function on an empty stomach. It’s hardly the first time, but it is the first time in company that he comes close to collapsing. 

John still surprises him by being the very first to figure it out. 

Mycroft does eat the digestives. They help very little. 

 

-

 

Anthea has noticed that something is off, so Mycroft calls her in, and in carefully chosen words informs her that he is expecting. 

She frowns, and asks, “ _Really_ , sir?” as if she could not imagine any possible scenario in which he would wish for this. 

Later she returns with changed schedules and appointments lightening his work load, and Mycroft knows it to be a practicality, first and foremost. The work comes first to her, and that is how it should be. 

Anthea does not mention it again, but she does her best to get him out of lengthy meetings, which is more than Mycroft had assumed that she would do. He is aware that there is some talk behind his back once it becomes common knowledge, and that this will be hard on Anthea as well. They assume that this will make him vulnerable. 

The irony would be that most here have children at home as well, of course. But they are alphas, or the rare beta. There are not many who carry their children themselves. Mycroft did consider using a surrogate, but he greatly prefers the control of doing this himself - there is no knowing what someone else might do while carrying his child, after all. 

The news spreads through his connections and the offices, as such things tend to do. Mycroft ignores surprised glances, doubting ones, and intrusive questions alike. 

This is no one’s business but his own.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. (John)

 

 

John is in the morgue.

He’s leaning against a cold metal bench. Watching Sherlock as he bends over a microscope, sighs, turns towards the evidence and then back to the microscope with a frown. Molly, as she routinely dissects a person into manageable bits. She’s glove-deep into a chest cavity, and softly humming.

John called in sick at work to be here. He’s tagging along. Again.

He’s waiting, looking at the bright sterile lights of the morgue reflect on Sherlock’s curls, the energy vibrating off of him, the thrill of near-discovery dancing in his eyes. 

Molly slaps a stomach onto a scale with a meaty smack. John meets her eyes, and she smiles. She is always pleased when Sherlock is around, even now. John gets it, even though he’d rather not. When John first met Sherlock, an alpha with _that_ smile around his lips, John thought that they’d be shagging against the wall before the night was through, too. 

It never happened. 

Instead it was friendship, nothing more. Being clever and ridiculous with something light and terrifying in his chest every time he looked at Sherlock. Then two years of mourning him. Three years of being alone, because having Mary didn’t help, not really. 

And now, it’s not... it never stopped, that thrill of being near him. 

Sherlock is either completely uninterested, or so used to everyone wanting him that it doesn’t even register to him. John gets that. But to be back here, again, after all that time, to be right back where he started, despite it all... If John had any sense he’d move somewhere else. If he was anything close to sane he’d stay the hell away from Sherlock. But a life like that, without Sherlock, he wouldn’t last a year. 

John’s done that, after all. He’s done the staying alive thing, when he thought that Sherlock was dead and that he owed him that much. Now, John is here, because there’s nothing else. Nowhere else. This is it. 

Which would all be fine, if it didn’t feel like it creaks between them. 

Mary’s been gone for two months now and it’s still not the same. They’re not even close to normal, and maybe they should talk about it, have a good row, then a couple of drinks and forget about it, the way people do. 

But Sherlock isn’t people.

 

-

 

An hour later, they’re at the crime scene again. To find a syringe in a garden somewhere - thrown out the widow, Sherlock said.

John doesn’t get how he’d know that. The killer might have taken it along or dumped it somewhere else, but hey, John scans the long grass as they walk. It’s not that big of a garden but it’s overgrown, neglected, with several trees, too. They search the bushes, and then move on. 

Sherlock glances at him as they walk, John can tell, but he doesn’t know what it’s about. 

When they reach the end, John stands, and stretches his back. They’ve searched all over, it’s not like it’ll be somewhere else. Unless they buried it? And then, in a near-bare tree, there is a glint of plastic. John grins. “Found it!”

Sherlock looks up from his study of a bush. “Where?” 

John points. Then says, grimly, “I’m guessing one of us needs to get that?” 

Sherlock is already looking at the branches speculatively. 

He can probably make it on his own, but John steps to the tree, leans down somewhat and tangles his fingers. “Come on, I’ll give you a boost.” 

Sherlock’s face pulls. For a moment, John thinks that he’ll say no. That he won’t want to be helped, or maybe it’s being touched. Or that John’s being useful at all. That it’s worth it, that he’s even here. Sherlock hadn’t asked him to come along, after all. John just did. 

But Sherlock obediently puts his foot in John’s hands. Sherlock’s hands settle on his shoulders, and John gives him a push up, as well as he can manage. Sherlock is much heavier than he looks, John grunts under the strain, but Sherlock manages to get to the first branch and pull himself up.

John wipes his dirty hands on his jeans.

Sherlock stands on the branch, gets a plastic bag out of his pocket, and wraps it around the syringe. He turns, slides down, and lands with an oomph. 

“You happy now?” John grins, expecting to see him be thrilled.

But Sherlock just barely glances at him, and nods. “Yes.” 

 

-

 

They bring the syringe in as evidence, and then there’s the moment where normally, before, they’d go out to dinner to celebrate. Sherlock does glance at him again, but he doesn’t suggest anything. And John’s tired of being the one that has to put in the work, of being the one that tries to make it feel right. Who even knows what Sherlock wants? Whether he wants him here. Whether he cares. 

So John goes out by himself, instead. Has some sad, greasy chips standing up in a shop. A weak beer in a pub. He doesn’t want to be doing this, actually, but sometimes he just needs to be away for a bit. Or that’s what he tells himself. 

Mary has a different name, now, in a different country, a different life - she’ll be fine. It’s John who’s left behind, again. He should be used to that by now, shouldn’t he? Being emptied out by whoever it is he loved. Being lied to and being left. 

John’s still angry, at times. Short bursts of it, where Sherlock’s the most absolute shit that has ever lived - John likes those. It’s all the time in between, where it’s not much of anything, that’s worse. Where he just is, trying to live on a pile of sharp and broken things. John can’t think about anything too much, or he might actually have to ask Sherlock why he never deduced who Mary really was. 

Why Sherlock let him marry her.

And why he let him think that the kid was his, because Sherlock never even said it. That he doubted Mary, that he wasn’t sure, that John should look into that. Instead, Sherlock was nothing but supportive, nothing but glad. And then he stayed away, of course, after the wedding, but some part of John had tried very hard to think that it was for the best. That he needed to be a father, now. A husband, for Mary. Be the sort of man who has a wife and a kid on the way. Settled. 

Sherlock never said a word about it, not even when they did find out. Not until Mycroft came over to tell him that _he_ was pregnant, and yeah, isn’t that funny, that _now_ , Sherlock would think it’s John’s. Now, when John’s left standing there gaping at Mycroft in mutual horror because Jesus, he can’t believe that Sherlock’s mind went there.

John’s not having a kid now. Or ever, he assumes. 

He shouldn’t have bothered. 

He feels relief, and that’s probably wrong, but at least it’s easy. Feeling like he lost something is worse. He should be glad that Mary’s not here right now. Or that she didn’t leave him with a screaming newborn, that would have been a curse. John never would have seen Sherlock again, then. Maybe a short visit, and then Sherlock would have left him the hell alone. 

John wouldn’t have blamed him. 

 

-

 

Mycroft calls when John’s on his way home. 

Mycroft sounds haughty as ever, but more and more often, somewhat apologetic, too. “John.”

John knows it comes from worry. Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones, or this is Mycroft knowing that Sherlock isn’t fine, or guilt for missing it the first time, for locking him up in solitary and allowing him to obsess about Moriarty - John’s not sure. All he knows is that Mycroft calls about once a week, always asking the same thing. “How is he?” 

“Fine, I think. A bit moody.” _Hell if I know why._

“Yes, he does so love to be...” Mycroft says the word very precisely, “...difficult.” 

John snorts. “You can say that again.” 

“You believe that he is clean?” 

“I honestly have no idea.” How should he know? They’re barely talking. Oh, sure, about cases, occasionally. But it’s not the same closeness John remembers, the way it felt like he’d never have enough, they’d never reach the end, between them. 

Mycroft says, “Well... I shall check in with you later, John.” 

The line goes dead. 

At least he’s not much for pleasantries. 

John walks home, and it’s not even ten, but Sherlock’s asleep on the sofa. Curled up into a ball, and there’s nothing restful looking about it, but he’s snoring lightly, and John’s always thought that Sherlock’s too vain to fake that. It’s a bit awful, actually. 

So John has a look in Sherlock’s room. Might as well. 

John hasn’t been there often since he moved back in. He’s seen glimpses, yeah. But there’s something about walking in here in the silence of the evening that feels invasive. John can smell Sherlock in here. It’s in his sheets, in his clothes. John doesn’t belong here.

He looks around, at the walls, the furniture. It’s always neat, here. Sherlock at his most Spartan. 

John kneels to look under the bed. Nothing there but dust.

He opens the drawers, careful not to make much noise, although he’s not sure why he’s bothering. Sherlock always knows when he’s been here. Underwear, neatly folded, all exactly the same. Socks. Books. A single picture of Sherlock and Mycroft as kids, John has seen it before. Frames on the walls, drawings. 

John opens the wardrobe, and traces his hand over the wood, corner to corner. The row of Sherlock’s suits. 

He doesn’t find a thing. 

 

-

 

Then back to work the next day, treating measles in a five-year old. Four colds, a sore throat that’s actually syphilis, a sprained ankle, and a finger with a deep cut from a kitchen knife that won’t heal - “Slicing onions,” the woman tells him as she unwraps the bloody bandage.

After, John eats lunch behind his desk. The bandage is in his bin. He can still see the pattern of the blood on it. 

He checks his phone, hoping for a text. A good case, this time. Not the ones that take days and make Sherlock look pale and withdrawn, John wants one where there’s laughing involved. Where it’s stupidly fun, to chase someone though central London. Something that makes it feel like _them_ again, something that fills him up with joy and colour and danger, something that feels like it’s really Sherlock by his side, like he’s really back, like none of it ever happened. 

Like the last years didn’t happen. 

John knows things have changed. God knows he looks a good bit older, too, he’s going grey now, and he has lines on his face and bags under his eyes. Sherlock’s noticeably aged as well. Who knows what he even did in those years away? What Sherlock’s nightmares are about, because John’s heard him, sometimes late at night, his muffled screaming. 

It all changed. 

But they have to get that back. They have to find a way.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock is fine. Good, even. 

On a run through Bexley chasing a suspect Sherlock’s coat ends up splattered with mud. He has to take it to a dry cleaners, and work a case without it. He feels oddly naked all day. His back prickles, as if there are invisible eyes watching his every move. As if he’s tensing for a blow, a gunshot, a lash of pain. 

John thinks him being uncomfortable without his coat is funny, and Sherlock plays along. He makes a face, while his heart painfully thumps in his throat. He keeps his strides from turning into a full-out run only by deducing everything he can around him out loud to John, not leaving him space to be impressed. 

John says, later, “Wow, you’ve missed this, then, haven’t you?”

Sherlock nods. He has missed it. But not in the way that John thinks. The days would almost be frantic if they weren’t so tiring, if he didn’t feel as though he was pushing a machine that hasn’t worked in a long time. As if he is trying too hard, too much. 

He can’t stop, though. Not when it is the only reason John is here. Why he’s staying. 

 

-

 

The next time Mycroft comes by, it’s with a case in Parliament. Just a little scandal, but Sherlock did ask Mycroft to send something if he had it. Or well, near-asked. It’s hard finding enough interesting cases to work every day. 

Mycroft’s visibly pregnant now – there is a curve under his waistcoat. The buttons are straining when he leans back in his seat. Sherlock has a barb about Mycroft’s weight on the tip of his tongue, _not sticking to the diet, are we?_ But that would be useless now. 

Instead, he says, “Still haven’t told Mummy?” 

Sherlock knows very well why Mycroft hasn’t told her yet. He’s read the tension on Mycroft’s shoulders, the lines around his eyes. Mycroft doesn’t want her here. 

Mycroft says, carefully, “Neither have you.”

“Hm.” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply further. Instead he reads the file. It’s nothing too good, but it should fill the day at least. John doesn’t have to work all weekend. 

The brief moment of silence is broken as Mrs. Hudson walks in with a tray of tea and biscuits. She’s either realised, or John told her, because she’s practically glowing. “Mr. Holmes! Congratulations!” 

Mycroft near-cringes, and then smiles, entirely insincerely. “Yes. Thank you.” 

Mrs. Hudson puts the tray down, and pours the tea. “How far along are you now?”

Sherlock reads on. There’s a connection to a prominent family, but it’s already fairly obvious that it’s going to be a run-of-the-mill blackmail and drugs scandal. 

Mycroft replies – he can’t bear to be impolite when offered tea, he never could - “Four and a half months.” 

“And is the baby kicking yet?” Mrs. Hudson sounds thrilled at the thought. 

Sherlock glances at her - she’s not pretending to be interested, she genuinely is. Is that because she never had any of her own? She’s distanced from her family, a murderer for a husband will do that. She never had the chance to be an aunt, or grandmother. 

Mycroft says with forced calm, “Yes.” 

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson smiles. “Now, Sherlock will be so glad to have a little one around, won’t you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock says, pretending to be distracted, “Why?” 

“Oh, of course you will!” She sounds shocked. 

Sherlock gives her a wink over the file.

She smiles back, relieved once again by the confirmation of his humanity. 

Ah! They’re so boring, these normal people. Of course Mrs. Hudson would be so pleased about this, another one to come along and be normal. Aren’t there enough yet? 

She totters off, and Mycroft helps himself to a biscuit. Mrs. Hudson bought those from the fancy bakery, Sherlock has no idea why she’d bother. Mycroft despises her just like he does everyone else. 

Sherlock looks at him. “It’s inadvisable, unbonded. There’s a high chance of miscarriage.” 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. 

“And with an advanced parental age there’s a higher risk for Down’s syndrome.” Sherlock looked it up online, the risks are significant. “Did you have amniocentesis?”

Mycroft shifts, awkwardly. “...There is no reason to worry, Sherlock.” 

Worry? It’s Mycroft’s own choice to do this at forty-three years old, couldn’t he have started sooner? “I’m not worried!”

“No, obviously not.” Mycroft smiles a thin smile. He eyes the file, and changes the subject. “So, will you take it?”

Half a day’s work, at most. Hardly worth it, really. But...

There’s the sound of the door, and John appears. “Oh, hi!” Done with work. He was bored all day - the creases on his shirt sleeves tell the story. “We have a case?” There’s a note of hope in his voice. 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. No matter how dull, it’s something. If he has a case, then John will come along. 

John sits down, grabs a biscuit, and his eyes go straight to Mycroft’s stomach as he says, “So how are you doing then, with the...”

Mycroft rubs his forehead. He looks about ready to murder someone, but Sherlock just grins at him. _Should have foreseen this, brother mine._

Mycroft looks at both of them, and either he misinterprets the grin, or he just wants to be done with it, because he says, sounding entirely put-upon, “If you wish to know, yes, I did have an amniocentesis. Everything was fine.” 

Sherlock nods.

Mycroft hesitates, and then takes a breath. “Also, I found out the sex.”

Of course he did, no use in waiting. 

Mycroft eyes him. “I will have a daughter.” 

Sherlock feels a flash of surprise. A girl. “Alpha?” With their genes it’s most likely.

“Yes.” 

Sherlock can feel the corners of his mouth curl with the hint of a smile. Good. She won’t be a thing like Mycroft then. 

Mycroft seems pleased as well. He smiles, briefly. Then gets up, and nods at the file. “Do keep me informed.” 

“Hm.” They’ll solve it by tomorrow morning. 

When Mycroft walks out, Sherlock sees John, sitting there with something odd on his face. John asks, a tightness around his shoulders, “When are we leaving?” 

Right, the case. “Half an hour?” 

John nods. “Fine.” But he doesn’t look fine, there’s something - Sherlock feels a stab of panic, what is it? And then, _oh_. He should have thought of that. 

John almost had a daughter. 

 

-

 

Two hours later, they’re in the sewers wading through water that is ankle-deep, ice cold and murky. They’re trying to prove that this could have been a plausible escape route for the minister’s drug dealer. John is walking first. He’s been determined, going first at every bend, scanning the tunnels constantly. He’s also been silent since they left the flat.

Sherlock can see the discomfort all over John’s body, so he brings it up. “Mycroft’s child is reminding you of your own.” 

John splashes on, his torch lighting the walls in uneven flashes. 

Sherlock’s not sure he’s going to reply, but John says, his voice sounding rough, “It wasn’t mine, was it?”

They haven’t talked about this. John just came back and that was it, Sherlock didn’t want to remind him of it, so in the last two months they haven’t even mentioned Mary’s name. But John wanted the child, Sherlock knows that. “You thought it was.”

John turns around, anger in his face. “ _Of course_ I did!” He pauses, lowers his voice, “Sherlock, I was married to her, of course I thought…” He swallows. John’s hand trembles, and he looks down at it, frustrated, and balls it. His breath forms a barely visible cloud.

“Mycroft’s…”

“Yeah, that one’s definitely not mine.” John says it quickly. And then he pulls a face. “And stop saying that, will you?” He smiles, very faint, but it’s there. “It’s creeping me out.” 

It’s an attempt at humour. Sherlock looks for words that would be funny, anything that is not _I am sorry that you thought you would have a child, John, it was my fault._ Or, _I don’t know why you still trust me when I didn’t see that for you._ He says, “Not as much as it did Mycroft.” 

John looks at him and it’s right there, still, John hates talking about this, but he is trying, hard. “He was insulted, was he? Doesn’t want me to be his baby daddy?” John grins. 

Sherlock, with something tense in his chest, repeats Mycroft’s words. “ _Absolutely not!_ ” 

John laughs. He lowers his head, and grins briefly as he walks on, his silhouette outlined against the walls.

Sherlock follows him into the deep, cool dark. 

 

-

 

They do all right, for the next couple of weeks. 

Sherlock thinks he is used to it, the fear. That there’s nothing that truly matters as long as John is here, as long as they can reach for something familiar. But they don’t quite get there, yet. 

It’s a lazy afternoon, Sherlock is scrolling through his emails trying to decide which case to take next, reading some out loud to John, when his phone rings. An unknown number. Anthea, and Sherlock, after weeks of being hazy, feels a bright burst of alarm as he hears her speak. 

He listens, and gets up while she’s still talking. 

John is following along, tense, ready to jump into action. Sherlock hangs up, and says, “We’re going. Now.” 

_It won’t work, most likely. Bonds are tricky. Biology is. It won’t work. It won’t..._

John jumps up, and grabs his coat. “Why? What is it?” 

Sherlock looks at John. “Mycroft.”

 

 

 

 

 


	6. (Mycroft)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _WARNING: This chapter contains a hospital scene, mention of a potential miscarriage, pregnancy-related physical and medical details and angst - please keep your self-care and/or possible triggers in mind when choosing to read._

 

 

At five months pregnant, Mycroft feels quite well. 

The baby has started moving, which he finds a curious sensation. It’s at times uncomfortable, but not unpleasant. His blood pressure remains stable, and his various hormone level tests continue to be within reason. He can keep his food down now, and he is only rarely nauseous anymore. He tries to eat as healthily as possible, finding it much less of a challenge than it has been for most of his life now that he is keeping the welfare of another in mind. He feels, quite curiously, content. 

Even Sherlock has been taking it well. Other than his first reaction - thinking that it was John’s, honestly! Mycroft is aware of where that came from, but he would have hoped for a little more reason from Sherlock - he has seemed quite interested. Not as vocal as John, but Mycroft has caught the small looks of concern. The thinly-veiled questions about his health. The quick recommendation to stop eating tuna because of its mercury content. 

That is why Mycroft told Sherlock that he is expecting an alpha girl. He had not planned to share it, but it was worth it to see the brief smile from Sherlock. 

Mycroft appreciates it, much more than Sherlock knows. 

 

-

 

And then, for no reason that he can discern, it becomes more of a challenge again. Mycroft feels tired, although that is not abnormal these days, but it increases to the point where he is dragging himself through the day. He has a headache constantly. First it is mild, and then it upgrades to a level of skull-bursting ferocity. But again, he is in meetings all day, listening to unsubstantiated blabbering, so it is hardly surprising. 

As he is avoiding painkillers, he suffers though it. 

His ankles and wrists have started to swell up noticeably, which, while annoying, he had expected at one point or another as a known sign of pregnancy, so he does not pay it much attention. There is little room for vanity in this endeavour, after all. 

He does not sleep well for several nights because of the ever-present headache. But he can feel the baby, _her_ \- his daughter - moving around. It is still a novel concept. 

Mycroft feels a small tightening of his stomach occasionally, but he is aware of the possibility of Braxton Hicks contractions and is well read up on them, so he pays it little mind. It’s been a while since he has had nausea, but even when he needs to get up at work and empty the contents of his stomach, he is not alarmed - he suffered this dozens of times already. He is not concerned until he uses the toilet later that day, feeling a cramp of some sort, and sees bright red blood. 

His heart stops. 

Mycroft walks out, and, keeping his face perfectly even, orders Anthea to clear his schedule for the day. 

He suppresses the tremble in his hands when he takes his coat off the hanger. 

He walks through the hallway in evenly measured paces. 

Mycroft calls for a driver, and sits down on the back seat of a town car. Even though he realistically knows that his posture will not make a difference, he cannot help but move with a studied care. He tells the driver to drive him to the hospital, with an authoritative voice, and avoids the quick, questioning look in the man’s eyes. Maybe because of that, or maybe because of the arm that he has protectively held around his stomach - a weak pose, he knows, but he cannot find it in himself to do anything else - the driver floors it. 

Mycroft calls his doctor from the car. She is the UK’s foremost fertility specialist, naturally. And after all the care he has taken to never mention his condition out loud except to those who needed to know, it now no longer matters. Mycroft knows that the driver is listening to his conversation and that he is bound to remember it later, but he tells her every single detail, feeling already somewhat detached. As if he is describing this happening to someone he does not know. 

When they arrive at the emergency department entrance, there is someone there with a wheelchair ready for him. If it would have been anything else, Mycroft would have insisted on walking in himself. But what is one more indignity? He sits down, and allows himself to be pushed into the building. He tries not to be certain that he has lost the pregnancy already. 

A nurse asks how far along he is, and he answers her, “Twenty-two weeks,” leaving out the ‘and three days’, knowing it to be useless. It is too soon, there is no chance of survivability. Mycroft can hear it being passed on from one nurse to the next. “Twenty-two weeks.” It follows him as a chorus, as a defining number, as a symptom just as much as the cause. 

Not far enough. 

And then the word, “Unbonded.”

Part of him had always known, after all. That he was not meant to be a parent. It is what everyone had been thinking. Mycroft could see it in John’s expression when he first found out. In Anthea’s. Why would he even want this? He is not suited to it. 

Perhaps it would almost be a relief, to be rid of it. To fail at this fragile desire. It would be better to know now once and for all. 

Mycroft knows that he will live on just fine. He has always known that no matter what happens, he will move past it, because if one moderates their emotions, then there is nothing that can truly destroy them. That has always been both his greatest strength and comfort. He knows that others might find that despicable, but it is true. 

Losing this child will not change a thing. 

 

-

 

They move him to a private room, and bring in a sonogram machine. Mycroft unbuttons his waistcoat and shirt. Dr. Mehta arrives, and wastes no time to put the cold gel on his stomach. She obviously hurried down here from her office higher in the building - she left behind a fresh cup of tea, according to her lipstick. 

The probe connects with his skin, it pushes and presses, and there it is, the grey image Mycroft has gotten used to seeing in the past months. 

He prepares himself. He sees it before him as if it has already happened: _no life signs, I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes,_ and tries to keep the panic of it contained. 

And then he hears the quick thump-thump-thump of a heartbeat. 

He is almost cruelly surprised. She is alive then. 

But the doctor does not look relieved. She takes the measurements, wipes off the gel, and wraps a tight band around his stomach to monitor him. The baby is under stress. Mycroft’s blood pressure is through the roof, and his heart is suffering. The doctor does not need to go on, but she does. She speaks to him as if he does not already understand. 

Mycroft knows that there is nothing to be done. He knew that this might happen. This was the risk if he dared to try this alone, unbonded. 

His body cannot sustain the pregnancy. 

The doctor asks him, carefully, “Is there anyone you could call who might want to bond...”

Mycroft sternly rejects that line of thinking. “No.” 

He can feel the periodical tightening of his belly. See the change in heart tones on the monitor. He wills himself to relax, but he cannot make his body listen, and the frustration of it might even be making it worse. They send in a nurse - an omega male on purpose, Mycroft assumes - with a sedative to calm him. 

Mycroft sees the look in his eyes, pity. And tells him no. 

If this is to happen to him, then he will feel every moment of it. 

Mycroft’s headache is flashing behind his eyes. Thrumming in his skull. Labour itself isn’t that painful, or not yet, but with every wave he inadvertently tenses, and tries to hold still. 

Mycroft thinks about the Chinese policy announcement next month, and which changes to suggest. The corruption in the Mexican government, and the agent they have in Argentina right now, what she passed on about the drug cartels. He can manage this. He was aware of the risks when he started. This is how life functions, and it would be unwise to expect any better.

Minutes pass, slowly.

 

-

 

And then the door is thrown open, and Sherlock strides in, all coat and hurry, his eyes bright with intensity. 

Mycroft immediately says, aware of the great, deep disadvantage of being caught in the middle of a wish destroyed, a child taken from him, “Leave.” When Sherlock opens his mouth, Mycroft raises his voice, “ _Now!_ ” 

John walks in behind Sherlock, obviously out of breath. “Look, I tried to tell him that...” 

Mycroft cuts in, who called them, was it Anthea? “I have no desire for an audience, leave or I will have you both removed.” 

Sherlock stares him down. “You think I wouldn’t do it?” 

“Sherlock, you can’t.” Surely this should be obvious to him?

John says, “Well, he just injected himself with bonding hormones, so I’d say he’s got a shot at it.” 

_What?!_ Mycroft looks between John and Sherlock. “No.” Bonding requires a fundamental attraction, a connection, it does not work because one wants it to, if it did he could have gotten any alpha off the street. “One cannot simply _will_...”

“I will.” Sherlock seems sure of it.

Mycroft tries for some approximation of a smile. “It is _kind_ that you thought of this, but no. Leave now.” 

“You wouldn’t even try?” Sherlock says it angrily, as if Mycroft has frustrated him simply by making a sane choice.

And no, he wouldn’t. “I cannot ask this from you, Sherlock.” Bonds are near-permanent. It would be a much greater sacrifice than just today. 

“He’s offering.” John sounds calm, at least.

Mycroft collects himself for a moment, and thinks it through. 

He looks at the monitor, and sees the lines on the graph spike up and down. His own heartbeat, the baby’s. 

It would not be entirely out of the realm of possibility, of course. Truthfully he _did_ think of it. But he did not lie - he would never, ever have asked this from Sherlock. 

Sherlock looks feverish already. The hormones that he injected himself with will negate his suppressants and will make him want to bond. There is sweat pearling on Sherlock’s brow, he is jiggling his leg, tapping his fingers, slowly stinking up the room. He’ll have a heat either way.

Yes, then. Yes, he will. Mycroft says, slowly, “I will repay you for this.” He vows it to himself, too. It does not help to keep the deep sense of guilt already rising within him at bay, but he means it. He will find the thing that is equal in value, and give it to Sherlock for this. 

Anything. 

“Fine.” Sherlock comes closer, puts a knee on the bed, and climbs on.

Mycroft turns to his side. He feels every inch of his own weakness, to even allow an attempt like this. To allow Sherlock to try and save him, when it is a risk that he chose to carry himself. 

The shape of Sherlock behind him is so warm that he can feel him radiating heat. Uncomfortably so.

John asks, “You want me to leave?” 

“No.” Sherlock sounds aggressive, a side-effect of the hormones. And perhaps this situation as well. Mycroft does not want him this close, either. 

Mycroft would object to John seeing them like this, but then why, what does it matter if John sees, it is not like it will be a genuine bond. It is simply a means to an end. 

_The things we do for the ones we love are despicable._ Mycroft did know that going into this. 

Sherlock shifts on the bed until he’s lying behind him, Mycroft can feel Sherlock’s breath on the back of his neck. It’s entirely too close. Entirely distasteful. Mycroft tenses. 

Sherlock leans even closer, and bites down. Mycroft can feel goose bumps rushing over his arms downwards, a wave of heat rolling down his spine. It isn’t sexual. He is not aroused. But it is beyond that. It runs through him, again and again. Mycroft closes his eyes, and willingly lets it pull him under. 

_The things we do..._

 

 

 

 

 


	7. (John)

 

 

The silence stretches. 

It’s the middle of the night, and John’s sitting on a hospital chair. He has a takeaway cup with tea standing to his side that’s gone cold an hour ago. There’s a drop standing out on the lid. 

The monitor’s noiseless, so there’s no beeping from Mycroft’s heartbeat. No murmur of the baby’s, either. Still, the lines dance up and down. 

There are noises in the corridor. Doctors and nurses chatting, beds being moved. Some footsteps growing louder, passing by, and then fading away again. The occasional echo of a conversation. 

A baby cries. It’s far away, but recognisable. 

John tries not to hear it. 

Sherlock was right. It does remind him of Mary, seeing Mycroft pregnant. Hearing him say that it is a girl. 

For seven months, John thought that he’d be a father. That he would hold that little life in his arms and swear that he was going to be there for her. He was going to do it. He would have. Even if it would have killed all the rest of him. 

John’s not all that sure that he would have made a half-decent father anyway. But he would have tried. 

John looks at Mycroft. He’s asleep, still lying on his side, with a hand over his stomach. The faint shape of Sherlock is visible behind him. All John ever did for Mary was go to Tesco’s and buy biscuits. 

Never this. 

It was Anthea, who called. John didn’t know exactly what was going on, until he heard Sherlock say in a strange, hollow voice, “Any alpha?” 

They rushed over to the hospital. And no, it couldn’t be anyone. 

But Sherlock was determined, and John thought, _do it, because god knows we’ve lost enough already._ John knows a thing or two about loss now, and he doesn’t need any more. None of it.

John’s seen it done before. Bonds happening right when they’re losing someone, right when it’s needed. It’s the kind of thing doctors talk about. It’s rare, it takes the desire to help, care - love, really. John never thought he’d see Sherlock do it. That he would even try. For Mycroft. 

But there’s a sign on their door, ‘Bonding taking place.’ 

Mycroft and Sherlock in that bed. John can’t look at it, but he can’t look away, either. 

John takes his phone out, and stares at it. He wants to send something to someone, but he scans through the list of names, and there’s no one there that needs to know that in the middle of the night, he is sitting in a hospital. He looks back at the monitor. He looks at the door, and the wall. There’s a clock slowly, soundlessly, sliding from one minute to the next. 

John waits, even though he can smell the both of them. It’s strong enough that it’s in his nose, and he can taste it on his tongue. It’s raw, like blood. 

It takes hours before Sherlock wakes up with a start. His eyes are red-rimmed. There’s a high flush on his cheeks, and his hair is limp with sweat. He says, in a dry and gravelly voice, “It’s working?” 

“So far, yeah.” 

Mycroft stirs as well. His eyes open, and move to the monitor - the baby’s heartbeat. John says, quickly, “It picked up. It’s stable now.”

Mycroft doesn’t relax so much as just nod in acknowledgement. 

John gets up on stiff legs, and gets plastic cups of water. He can see their reflections in the dark window. Himself, fetching water, as if it will make any difference at all. Sherlock, looking wild already, outside of himself. Mycroft, completely still. A triptych of human suffering. 

John doesn’t get too close to Sherlock to hand him the cup, but still he can feel the heat radiating off him. John offers one to Mycroft as well, but Mycroft ignores it in favour of lying down. His fingers curl against his stomach. 

Sherlock sips his water, and scrapes his nail against the edge of the cup, again and again. 

They don’t talk. 

Unconsciously or not, John can feel his eyes drifting towards Mycroft’s hand. His waistcoat has been opened to allow room for the monitor to sit there. The lower buttons of his shirt are undone, and John can see the edge of Mycroft’s trousers, as well as a sliver of skin in-between. 

Betas don’t bond. John will never be able to - it wouldn’t do a thing if he tried. It’s the only reason that he can even be in here without wanting them both. It’s always been easier, being a beta. 

It’s shit. 

Mycroft seems uneasy with having Sherlock that close. He moves on to his back and tries to manoeuvre to find a good way to lie down and keep the monitor in place. Sherlock shifts in response, and lies near the edge of the bed in an attempt not to touch him. 

It would almost be comical, if they both weren’t so deadly serious about it. 

 

-

 

It‘s a long night. 

John’s eyes are burning with fatigue, but whenever he closes them and drifts off... his head falls back, and he wakes up again. 

Sherlock gets out of the bed at one point, either because he’s decided that they’ve bonded enough or he’s just too uncomfortable, John doesn’t know. Sherlock takes a chair and stays close, though. 

Doctors move in and out of the room on rounds. Most of them only check whether they’re fine and then leave because of the smell. It is nearly impossible for any other alphas or omegas to even be close. 

Around six AM John goes out and gets more tea. It doesn’t taste like much, but it’s hot. 

He talks to the doctors as well. They are in no man’s land - not officially fine, but better. There is little to say. Nothing to do. One of them asks him whether Sherlock or he is the father, and John laughs and says, “Neither, trust me on that one.” 

It feels a bit bitter, in a way. 

As the hours pass by, Sherlock gets more and more agitated. It’s the first time John’s ever seen him in heat, and he had expected some gloating, maybe. Arrogance, something bold, the way most alphas get. But Sherlock just seems annoyed. He can’t sit still. Moves jerkily. At one point he jumps up and leaves. To a bathroom, maybe, John’s not sure. 

Mycroft sighs, and says, fatigue colouring his voice, “He shouldn’t have done this.” 

“Well, it’s worth a bit of...” John looks to the door. “... _That._ ” He looks back at Mycroft. “Isn’t it?” 

“I do not take this lightly, John.” Mycroft means it, too. He’s actually berating himself. “He does not take well to his heats.” 

What does that mean? Should he keep an eye on him, or...? “He knew what he was doing.” John looks at the monitor, at the heartbeat dancing there, and says, “It was worth it.” 

Mycroft avoids his eye. 

He seems tired. Exhausted, really, so John lets the conversation die out. 

 

-

 

Sherlock comes back. It’s to sit in a corner and glower, but he does, so John counts that as a win. He keeps in mind what Mycroft said though, they should go home soon, probably. Give him some privacy. John can’t imagine what it’s like, a heat, but he’s seen plenty of them to know how it goes. Sherlock will want to be in his room. 

It’s morning, when finally the gynaecologist comes around. She’s a middle-aged Indian woman, who Mycroft introduces as “Doctor Bharat Mehta.” Her hand feels cold as she shakes John’s. She stays away from Sherlock - she’s an alpha, it’s obvious in the way that Sherlock straightens up and gives her a murderous look.

She’s followed by a beta nurse pushing a sonogram machine. 

The doctor removes the monitor. Mycroft delicately opens his shirt a few more buttons – John’s surprised that they’re not being kicked out for this bit – and she puts the gel on, and turn the screen on. 

Mycroft is outwardly collected, calm, even, but there is something in the way that he is holding himself that feels off. Sherlock seems distant, but he leans forward to see the screen now.

First there’s the heartbeat. A fast rhythm that sounds good, John thinks. Strong. 

And then there’s the image, grey and white, a small shape. Just like John saw with Mary, just months ago.

It’s been twenty years since John did a gynaecological rotation, but he can recognise the spine, like a string of pearls. The head, limbs, one of her arms is moving, he’s glad to see. The shape of her heart, contracting fast. There’s good blood flow from the cord. Some dark blood by the placenta, it shows as a deep black on the screen, but no more than there was before - John’s seen the file and the prints of the last sonogram. 

The doctor checks thoroughly, and then says to them, “Baby seems to be doing better.” She points out the details, and says, with a brief nod, “Congratulations on your bonding.” 

Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock replies, so it’s John who says, on auto-pilot, “Yeah, thanks,” as she walks out, quickly. That took a lot of her to even be in here, John knows. Most alphas couldn’t do it. 

Mycroft turns his head away, and hides his relief. John pretends not to notice. He does see the look on Sherlock’s face, quickly hidden as well. Sherlock is glad. 

In this moment, they have won. 

 

-

 

Mycroft, true to form, doesn’t comment on the sonogram at all. He simply says, “I can arrange for a beta driver to bring you both back to Baker Street.” 

John knows it’s both a ‘thank you’ and a dismissive ‘leave now’ in one. “Yeah, that would be good, I think.” John glances at Sherlock. He is sweating copiously now, there are dark circles on his shirt. 

Mycroft texts some unknown person. “There will be a black car outside in five minutes.” 

John looks at Sherlock, who is currently jiggling his leg, and biting his lower lip. He seems ready to bolt out of his seat and run. John stands. Sherlock does so as well, puts on his coat, and throws a look back to Mycroft, who eyes him with something too complicated for John to decipher. Guilt? Fear? 

John says, “So... Let us know how it goes?”

Mycroft doesn’t seem surprised by the request, not entirely. “I will, John.”

They walk out into the corridor. It’s fine, until they’re a couple of paces in and walk past a nurse, who suddenly stumbles. Sherlock doesn’t stop, just keeps walking with fast strides that John can barely follow. He wants to say something like _‘Oi, calm it, would you?’_ But he knows why. Every single person they pass by turns towards them when they realise that this tall man in the coat smells like sex on legs. 

John can feel it, too. There’s a press of arousal that he’s been trying to ignore all night. A dryness in his mouth. A slight shiver to his skin. He’s a beta so he shouldn’t feel it nearly as much as anyone else would, but he’s not immune. 

It’s nothing like the looks of pure lust crossing over people’s faces when they catch even a whiff of Sherlock, but John hurries behind him anyway. They pass a group of doctors, and John would almost feel for them, for the open-mouthed gasps and soft moans, if he didn’t hate them on sight. _Yeah, try living with that for years._

A string of gaping people later they’re finally downstairs, outside, and they can file into the car. Sherlock takes the back, so John - wisely, realistically - takes the front. He can’t sit that close to Sherlock right now without exercising some serious self-control, so he won’t. 

He should go to work after this, too. Get out. He’ll make sure that Sherlock gets home, and then he should go, and let him… do what he needs to do. 

_Let’s not be stupid, Watson._

 

 

 

 

 


	8. (Sherlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _WARNING: This chapter contains a brief mention of thoughts about genital self-mutilation._

 

 

Sherlock is in heat. 

He despises it. It’s useless. The process, the helplessness, the tide of biology. It’s dull, predictable - sheer torture. He’s never wanted a single heat, and he doesn’t want one now. 

The chemicals that he injected worked, he bonded to Mycroft, but his body thinks that it’s not over yet. 

There’s sweat dampening his forehead, prickling sharp underneath his arms and in the hollows of his knees. The fabric of his shirt sticks to his skin. He smells, _reeks_ , he knows that he does. 

He needs to get home. John seems to understand that much, at least, and he stays by his side while walking through the hospital corridor. But John’s presence doesn’t drown out the startled gasps of people suddenly smelling him. The low moans. The soft, longing sounds. Sherlock doesn’t even know what it is that they want so much. There’s nothing there but chemistry. 

It’s difficult to walk. It’s pulsing, pulling, building between his legs. He can feel his knot swelling, and painfully pushing on the zip of his trousers. He dismisses the feeling, but every step makes it more and more obvious. 

Mycroft arranged for a beta driver, already waiting for them at the entrance. John, not looking at him, takes the front seat. He’s swallowing constantly, now. Betas don’t get as affected by heats, but they can still sense it. It can rile them up. 

John’s looking out the window with his hands balled into fists. His back is ramrod straight. 

The driver looks back at him, and John’s body shifts so quickly that Sherlock thinks that John might hit him. But he pulls back just as fast, his shoulders squared, his arms tense. 

Sherlock tries not to feel the rumble of the engine. The stops and starts are making him shift on the seat. His body is ablaze. He needs to control it. It aches, this, the possibility of it. Every bit of his skin does. Sherlock can’t stop looking at John in the mirror, his neck, and his shoulders. John’s not an omega, Sherlock can’t fuck him, he can’t mount him. He can’t bond, but he wants to lick him. Suck there.

As soon as they get to Baker Street, John gets out. 

Sherlock follows, slower. He nearly doubles over on the stairs, but he keeps going, straight to his room. 

As soon as the door is shut and the lock is turned, he opens his trousers, and lowers them. Shoes, kicked to the side of the room, his shirt pulled off, still sticking to his skin. His underwear is damp. And then he’s naked, the cool air hitting his bare skin warring with the heat blasting though him. He doesn’t want to. 

He never wants to. 

Sherlock takes a wad of tissues. Closes his eyes, and touches himself. 

It doesn’t take long but it feels too long, every hard stroke is a movement of pain-pressure-pleasure, spiking hard behind his eyelids. Sherlock tries not to think. Just to stroke, hard, again and again, until he bends over and he comes, hard spurts of it. 

He cleans up, and goes to lie on the bed. He curls onto his side. 

John is by the door soon after. He sounds uneasy. “I’m off to work, okay? If there’s anything, just…” He breathes. “Text?” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He’s already getting hard again. 

This is always inside of him. The senseless, rutting beast. It’s who he is, hidden in the base of his mind palace, down, down low. Needy. It’s all-encompassing. There is very little he can do to control it now and eventually there won’t be anything at all. Drugs won’t either. He knows. 

Sherlock knew what he was doing, injecting himself. It was worth it, but it’s already a hazy memory, and he keeps it that way, pushes it out of his mind. Biting Mycroft, claiming him, it was so good it closed up his throat. It made his entire body throb with a single purpose, to have him, keep him, possess him. 

He did it, and his body thinks that he’s still doing it, that he’s still there, claiming Mycroft, only…

Sherlock closes his eyes, and separates the memory from everything else. He lets his body pulse, and grow and want, and tries to keep his mind going. He thinks of cases. Nothing like the sharp detail that he can usually manage, just old deductions, in a rhythm his brain can sustain, as he tries not to feel anything. 

 

-

 

It’s dark, when there is a voice at the door. It takes Sherlock a long time to come out of his mind palace. When he does connect the faint string of words to reality, it slams into him. He gasps. He’s tense, all of him is, and he has a massive erection. His legs feel as if he had them locked in the same position for too long, his whole body is stiff, and cramped. 

John tries the door. 

Sherlock doesn’t remember locking it, but it is locked, and the relief is sharp enough that it covers the flash of disappointment. 

“…Sherlock? Sherlock, I’m serious, talk to me.” 

John is sounding worried, so Sherlock tries to find the part of him that has a voice. “I’m...” He’s hoarse. Did he scream, before? He doesn’t remember. “I’m here.” 

A sigh. “Good. Can you open the door?”

Sherlock eyes it, the wooden thing keeping him from John, keeping his body from tackling John, pushing John down and… “No.” It sounds aggressive, he knows. Hard. 

John’s voice changes, “Look, I know that you… I know, all right? But you still need to eat. Drink. It’s going to be a day or two before it’s out of your system.” 

Sherlock runs a quick check of his body - his stomach is empty, yes. His tongue is dry, and sticking to his lips. He looks at the door. John is right there. Sherlock’s erection pulses at the thought. _The things you’d do to him now._ “Leave it on the floor.” 

John hesitates. “All right. Yeah.” 

The sound of something being set down. Sherlock sits up. The cover of his bed sticks to his arse. 

John’s not gone yet, though. “I called Mycroft. He’s doing well.” The echo of a smile. “You did it. It worked.” 

Sherlock can hear it, but it doesn’t resonate much. It doesn’t matter now. He needs John, no, he needs something, he just, aah! He runs his hands through his hair, and jumps up, his erection waving in front of him. “Leave.” 

Another hesitation. “Sherlock, it’s nothing that I haven’t seen before.” 

“Leave!” _Or I will touch you, I will lick you and claim you and take you and it will be the end of us._

“Okay.” Resignation. “Okay. I’ll be upstairs, if you need me.” 

Sherlock waits five more minutes, and then opens the door. He goes to the bathroom, and pees, with difficulty, his hand trembling on his half-erect penis and small streams of urine pumping out of him. He avoids the mirror, and returns to his room, stopping to take the tray of food with him. 

Tea, too hot. Toast, too dry. Cheese, no. There’s a bottle of water, and Sherlock opens it. The roughness of the top is pleasing under his fingers. He turns it too hard, crackling some of the plastic. He brings it to his mouth, closes his lips around it and drinks. He presses his tongue against the plastic ring of the bottle. It feels erotic, the cool water. He rolls his neck backwards and lets it run down his throat in thick, cold gulps. And then he coughs and it’s burning in his nose, some running over his chest, peaking his nipples. 

There’s wetness by his toes, drops of water on his erect penis, and he is aware that he could get off again, so easily. Instead he puts the bottle of water down, ignores his erection, ignores it all, and lies down on his bed again. 

He watches it, his penis. Lying there on his stomach, hard and swollen, red. His knot is even larger, now. Sherlock remembers considering cutting it off on days like this. It seemed plausible. He could. Mycroft blinked, when he told him that, but he didn’t believe him, not really. And then the next heat, when he tried to… Sherlock can feel a flush of shame. He moves, jerkily, turns in the bed. One side. The other. He was allowed suppressants then. 

He lifts his legs, and puts his feet against the wall. Turns around again. 

He lies down on the floor, hard and cool and dusty. Jumps up, and stands against the wall, presses his erection there, ruts against it. 

Eventually he can’t stop it, and he jerks himself off again, unfeeling, the jets of hot sperm dripping off the head of his penis. It doesn’t help a thing. None of it _helps_! Sherlock screams in impatience. 

Then lowers his voice, aware of John. John. His body throbs at the name alone. He breathes it in, _John_ , every breath out is _John, John, John,_ like a mantra, until he can take it for one more moment, one more. Sherlock looks at the clock, and doesn’t comprehend what it’s saying for a long moment. It’s night, now. 

It sits under his skin like ants, like worms. Digging, crawling, prickling. 

Sherlock tries to get into his mind palace, and when that fails, he clings to images and simple thoughts - John’s eyes. John’s name as a chant, again and again. It works for a while, but then his hips jerk, his spine twinges, his penis throbs, and it’s gone. Sherlock turns on to his belly, fucks the bed, jerks his hips back and forth, hard, insane, crazed. 

He lies in his come, his head echoing in a low, endless sound. 

His breathing is still fast, and his lungs ache. 

There’s spit on his lips. 

It hurts. It’s impossible to live like this. Sherlock thinks of his young self again. The drugs didn’t stop it, but they made it bearable. They made his anger bubble to the surface and glide off him. They made his body feel lean and strong. They didn’t leave him like this - an ache, a walking need. 

He flushes again, so deeply that he’s certain he’s running a high fever. He loses control of time, of his mind, he just ruts, and ruts, and cries. He knows he does, because there’s John’s voice again, sounding as if he’s been talking for a long time. “…if there’s anything I can…”

“There’s nothing you can do.” Sherlock says it to himself, low enough that John won’t hear it. 

“What?” 

Sherlock jumps up, on trembling, floating legs, and stands by the door. He’s naked, but sweating. So hot. He presses his erection against the wood, licks his dry, chapped lips. “There’s nothing you can do.” 

John is standing close, right by the door. Sherlock can sense him. He imagines that he can smell John’s skin, his jumper, that he can feel John’s hair against his lips. 

John says, “I can call someone, if you want me to. An omega, or god, anyone, there’s services, aren’t there…” 

“No.” Sherlock can’t do this with someone else around, he can’t. John wants to help - John wants to cure him, make it feel all better. But he can’t cure this, can he?

John takes a breath. “Look, I could, um…”

Sherlock can feel his stomach turn in fear, and he doesn’t let John speak. “No.” He says it fast and breathless, his penis already painfully aroused at the thought. He touches it, wonders if he could get off with John right here. Surely that would be okay, or no - his hand doesn’t listen, he pumps himself. 

An audible swallow. Does John know what he’s doing? Can he hear it? Sherlock can’t stop. 

“Let me in.”

“No.” Breathless, now, Sherlock is running his hand over himself, pulling pleasure from himself. “I can’t, I’d, John, I’d...” _Fuck you. Push inside of you, knot and all, until you bleed and still I’d keep on going. I’d hurt you and enjoy it beyond belief._

John’s breaths are so close by. He’s hard, too, Sherlock knows it for sure, and no! He lets go of his erection. It throbs in his touch’s absence. “Sedate me.” 

“What?” John sounds hazy, confused. 

The idea forms bright in Sherlock’s mind. It would mean relief. He can’t do cocaine now, it would only make it worse, but morphine, a downer, John must have some, something, anything. “Sedate me.” It’s perfect. 

Sherlock walks over to the bed, finds a dressing gown, and ties it. 

“Sherlock, no, that’s not a solution…”

Sherlock opens the lock with shaking hands, and throws the door open. 

It’s half-dark, but he can see a flash of John’s flushed face, John’s eyes going straight to his erection, hardly hidden by the fabric, but he doesn’t care. “Sedate me.” 

John looks him over, he can’t seem to stop, his eyes are wide and hungry. He licks his lips. 

Sherlock steps outside, and tries hard not to notice John’s startled gasp when he pushes past him. He walks up the stairs. It must be in John’s room. It has to be. 

John follows him up the stairs, not fast enough because Sherlock knows about the medical bag, and yes, there it is. He opens it, throws everything else to the ground until he finds a vial, morphine. Sherlock hurries, rummages, a needle, he needs this now, before he… 

John enters the room, and suddenly Sherlock is very aware of the bed in the corner. He opens the package of the syringe, holds it by the vial, and John says, “No, you don’t even know how much…”

Then John is next to him, on his knees, grabbing the syringe. His presence is enough to make Sherlock shudder with desire, and his grip loosens before John even tries to take it from him. 

“You don’t...” John’s voice softens. “You don’t know how much you need.” 

_I do,_ Sherlock thinks, _I need everything that’s here and then more to make this go away._ The ground under his knees would be enough to get him off, the fabric draped over his back, the air, being in John’s room, all of it. And John is so close, looking at him with heat in his gaze. John opens his mouth, and Sherlock already knows what he’s going to say. “No.” 

“Sherlock…” John’s gaze is hungry. 

Another flash of _fucking him, splitting him, taking him and owning him._ “No!” 

John looks him in the eye, and touches his arm. It’s a crackle of electricity, of need, and Sherlock can’t pull away. “You just need someone to be with, I get it, it’s fine, it’s…”

Sherlock’s body is saying it, he knows. His erection is massive, his knot is thick, there’s wetness there, he’s so ready to turn John around and take him. 

John looks at him, and says, “I can take it.” 

It hurts to hear it, because Sherlock hates every single shiver running though him at the thought, every wave of arousal. All of it. He near-screams, “I can’t _THINK LIKE THIS_!” 

“I know, I know, but it’s fine…” John’s warm hand touches his hip. 

Sherlock feels ready to come on the spot, to see stars and howl and crawl for it, but instead he twists away. “No.” 

John follows, and Sherlock gets up, slams John against the wall, and says, his voice more a growl than anything else, “John, I would keep on going, I would take you until you scream and I would. Not. Stop.” 

John licks his lips, and nods. “Yeah, it’s… do it.” He’s breathing fast, and his eyes are glassy. He’s hard, Sherlock can feel it against his leg. John, like that.

He could. In this moment, Sherlock could. It would be so easy. But Sherlock can smell John and he doesn’t want to, he can’t do that, so he pushes him off, hard. “Don’t.” 

John looks at him in confusion, but now Sherlock is talking he can’t stop. “I don’t want it, I don’t want to feel it, ever! It’s not fine, and you can’t…” _fix it_ “NO!” 

John looks at him. Then swallows, and nods. 

Sherlock’s body rebels, it throbs and whines like a caged animal. His mind feels shaken, unreal, but he _has_ to. “Sedate me.” 

It takes a moment, where John is still. And then he takes the vial, and pulls the morphine into a syringe. “Ten mg?”

“Twenty.” 

John eyes him, and says, “Fifteen.” 

Sherlock doesn’t argue, he can’t anymore. All he wants is the relief of it. Every single moment is just the anticipation of it being done. One more burning second, one more. He sits down on the bed, John’s bed, it smells like John. He lifts his gown, and John hesitates only a second, before placing the syringe against his arse. The touch alone is enough to make him spasm, _so good, so very good._

It works in seconds. 

The sharpness is changed into a lower, warmer thing, moving through him. Sherlock relaxes for the first time in hours. His muscles slacken, and his head sinks down. 

“Are you all right?” John asks, distantly. 

“I hate it.” Sherlock says it to the sheets. “All of it.” It feels like an empty admission, as if it’s someone else speaking, not him. 

And then he’s gone.

 

 

 

 

 


	9. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft is on bed rest. He sits in bed at home, propped up against some pillows, his laptop resting on his legs. 

He left the hospital as soon as possible. Both because of the discomfort of spending one more minute in that cramped space, and for the memory of it. The bite mark on the back of his neck still feels tender to the touch. 

It will scar. 

He is marked now, in more ways than one, and the more time goes on, the more preposterous it seems that he allowed it. That he would let Sherlock carry this burden, when it is his and his alone. 

Why did Sherlock do it? They have never seen eye to eye, they have never been that close, not truly, and yet... it worked. Mycroft finds it some bizarre proof that his mind can only wonder at, but not fully comprehend. He is bonded to his brother. Sherlock bonded to him. 

His body chemistry is dependent on Sherlock’s now, his child’s is as well, and that is an uncertain prospect. Now that Sherlock has gone through a heat he will have been sharply reminded of why he has always chosen not to. 

Why didn’t John stop it? Why did John help Sherlock, encourage him, when he was the only one with reason in the room? Mycroft can remember John’s calm presence well enough, but he needed John to protect Sherlock above all, to think only of Sherlock’s interests, not… Mycroft’s. 

Because that is what it comes down to. Both Sherlock and John suffered through that night along with him and did what they did for him. Or for the promise of his child, but it is hard to see the difference between the two, and it seems naïve to even seek it at this point. Why would they care for some potential future? For some image that Mycroft desires, the idea of this child in his arms?

Why would they care? 

This is his own choice, and he is ready to live with the consequences. But they should not be Sherlock’s. 

It is unlikely that Sherlock would have ever bonded to someone else, not with John being a beta, but still it feels as if Mycroft has taken something from him that he never had any right to. A first bond, a giving of self, there is nothing as precious, and it does not belong to him.  
It was not sexual, but it still is based on a physical need and comfort, too close for what they are. It should never have happened between them. He should have said no, why did he not say no? 

Of course Mycroft knows very well why, she is moving beneath his skin right now, still here. His daughter. 

But with every movement of hers, he is sharply aware that he already has put his own wishes, his own desire for a child, ahead of protecting Sherlock. And it feels like failure. 

It was never supposed to come to this. 

In all his planning and thinking, Mycroft never thought that this would harm Sherlock. Not physically, and not emotionally either. He had thought of his child as being on a completely different level, the two would not interact. Mycroft knows that he was wrong about that, he knew it when he saw the glitter of happiness in Sherlock’s eyes when talking about her, but then he had treasured it. The thought that Sherlock could enjoy this as well, that he might grow to care for her down the line. 

But now it was panic, in Sherlock’s eyes. Fear. 

And Mycroft never had any right to put it there. It should not have happened. 

But it did, and sitting at home, in the long, silent hours, he has little choice but to place his own emotion aside, and to deal with it the best he can. There is no use in wishing it would be different now. And he cannot let himself think that he might change it, if given the chance. 

These things do not do well when thought about. 

 

-

 

Anthea comes by regularly with updates, which allows Mycroft to work from his bed. Aside from the cleaning staff, who know better than to disturb him, she is his only visitor.

He has not informed his parents yet that he is expecting, and Mycroft knows by their continued silence that Sherlock hasn’t, either. They do not know, and the thought of telling them now is impossible. The idea that Sherlock bonded to him, Mummy will find it deeply shameful. And he might still miscarry. So no, he will not inform them. 

He will keep it private. 

John texts twice a day, asking how he is. Mycroft finds it peculiar to describe his physical state to John, but he knows that John only asks so he can pass it on to Sherlock, so he replies to his every enquiry. 

John texts, “Sherlock’s heat is over. He’s tired, but fine. JW” And Mycroft allows himself a few moments of relief. 

He did not think that Sherlock would do something stupid, not now that he has John, but it had still been a nagging doubt. Sherlock has always been very verbal about disliking his heats, and the ones that Mycroft has witnessed were violent, and seemed painful. He never wished it on Sherlock to have to go through another one. 

 

-

 

A couple of days later, Mycroft is allowed light exertion again. And after a day of moving around the house without any negative reaction, Mycroft calls for a car to bring him to Baker Street. 

He needs to face this. 

He dresses in a full suit for the first time in days. He has been frequenting a tailor who specialises in pregnant omegas, and there are small elastic panels added to his trousers and the sides of his waistcoat, but he is surprised to feel that they have become tight in the last week. She must be growing then. 

Mycroft times his visit so that John is at work, and their landlady is visiting a neighbour. While in general Mycroft does not mind when John is present, he needs to speak to Sherlock privately. He deserves whatever anger, whatever bile Sherlock wishes to direct his way, unhindered by John’s influence. 

He is prepared for it, as well. 

He will go to mend whatever this might have broken between them, and to assure Sherlock that he does not expect him to hold to the bond. 

Mycroft lets himself into Baker Street with the key that he has had since the beginning. He had often thought that Sherlock would call him on it, but he never has. Then, of course, neither Sherlock nor John seem that intent on keeping their living quarters private, not with Mrs. Hudson walking in and out constantly. Clients and friends as well. Mycroft cannot even imagine living in such constant openness. 

He takes the stairs slower than he would have done at any time before. He is aware that it is unrealistic to avoid all physical activity, and that it was not even anything of his own doing that brought on nearly miscarrying in the first place. But yet he finds himself unwilling to push his body at all. He is careful with every movement. Calculated in his protectiveness. 

A nurse commented on it, and said, “It’ll pass once you feel more secure again.” But Mycroft is rather certain that it will not. That he will continue to think of his body as something fallible until the very moment that his child is in his arms, alive and healthy. 

So he takes the stairs slowly, holding the handrail. 

Then knocks, and opens the door. 

Sherlock is sitting on the sofa, holding his laptop with a book spread out next to him that reads, ‘General Obstetrics in Omega Physiology’. Mycroft immediately feels a rush of annoyance - Sherlock does not need to know anything about that, why would he concern himself with… Mycroft suppresses it. It might be simple curiosity. A need to understand what happened between them. 

And he might believe that, but Sherlock’s look, a quick glance to his stomach, back up to his face, seems to derail that. He seems _anxious_. “You’re not allowed to work yet.” 

Mycroft smiles a bitter smile, _why do you always assume that you are a duty, Sherlock?_ “I am not working.” It is none of Sherlock’s business if he is, in fact, but he is willing to let that slide at the wild way that Sherlock seems to be looking him over. Was he genuinely afraid? Why? 

Mycroft focuses on his reasons for being here. “I have come to see how you are.” 

In any other case he might have worded it differently, but he assumes that they are beyond that at this point. And Sherlock is more likely to be snide at any attempt of subterfuge. 

Sherlock frowns, still looking him over, and says, “Why? I’m fine.” 

Mycroft does not exactly want to refer to earlier events, but he has come here knowing that he would have to. “You experienced a heat.” _For my sake._

Sherlock’s face pulls, but only briefly. “Over now.” 

It’s true. Mycroft can smell him, as he always can, but there is nothing like the pulsing urgency of a heat there. Or, actually, Sherlock does smell slightly different. Sweeter. Mycroft wonders about it for a fraction of a second before he realises that it is the scent of a bonded alpha. He has simply never smelled it on Sherlock before. 

Sherlock eyes him. “You’ll need to bond again.” 

Ah. So that is why the research is there. Mycroft had not expected the conversation to go there, not this quickly, at any rate. “Not immediately.” He says it carefully. “And I can continue with chemical bonding hormones.” 

Sherlock frowns. “They aren’t as effective as a real bond.” 

Yes. Mycroft is very aware of that. But he had assumed… Mycroft looks at Sherlock, and tries to consider his response. Why would Sherlock do this? Whatever agreeable physical reaction Sherlock might feel - if any - will be negated by the fact that he will need to be off suppressants. 

Actually, now that Mycroft smells him again, he can tell that Sherlock is not on suppressants at the moment. Has he not taken any, since? Mycroft had thought that Sherlock knew what he was offering, that he had foreseen the heat that would come after it, but he had not thought that Sherlock would think this far ahead. 

He tries not to let any of his own hopes or interests colour his voice, but he does ask, “You would bond again?” 

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. “We need to.” 

As if it’s that simple. 

Mycroft lowers himself down onto a chair, slowly, his mind reeling. Is Sherlock aware what that will entail? The truth is that Mycroft himself is not fully certain of what that would be like. Nothing as intense as the initial bonding was, he imagines. A quick… re-connection. Once every week or so should be enough. 

He considers Sherlock, and out of all the reasons that might dissuade him, Mycroft picks the one he believes to be the most effective. “Has John agreed to that?” 

Mycroft finds it hard to imagine that this is a pleasing situation for John. To watch as… well, he has known for a long time what John feels for Sherlock, as has everyone around them. But Sherlock seems surprised by the question. “John?” 

Mycroft knows that Sherlock is immature, and while clever in his own way, there are still areas in which he is still so very blind, and John’s continued devotion to him seems to be one of them. But Mycroft does not comment on it. 

The truth is that it has often been on the tip of his tongue. _Just tell him, Sherlock._ But Mycroft has never said it, because he does not know for certain that it would be an improvement on their current partnership. Sherlock is undoubtedly deeply connected to John, but Mycroft does not know where Sherlock’s heart lies entirely, and whether he would want more from John. All he seems to desire is to have him close. While John, well, it is not hard to read what John would wish for. 

Mycroft thinks it best not to get involved. 

Instead he focuses on what is at hand. He eyes Sherlock. “I promised that I would repay you.” 

And he did not make that promise lightly. There are many things Mycroft can imagine that Sherlock might want: influence, information, access. Mycroft’s humiliation, in some way or other. Mycroft is ready to offer Sherlock everything he wants, so he says, aware of what this might cost him, “You may name your price.” 

Sherlock moves up from the sofa. “I don’t need a _price_.” 

“Whatever it is you want, then.” Mycroft can falsify records. He can nullify John’s marriage to Mary, quite easily in fact. He cannot make what happened with Magnussen go away entirely, and he has already done everything there he could, but he can bribe people so it is forgotten even faster. He can get Sherlock into the highest levels of society, or he can get him records of high level espionage, of government dealings, anything. 

But Sherlock’s face says enough - he is annoyed. Angry, even. 

Mycroft does not know why. He is prepared to give up something difficult and painful, something that would damage his reputation, anything. And more than that, Sherlock would deserve it. To be given something of not equal value, that would be impossible, but as close to it as he can. 

“Sherlock, you did me an immense…” _favour_ “…service, it is only natural that you would receive something in return.”

Perhaps it was too much to assume that Sherlock already had something planned, but Mycroft really did think it. Sherlock always has things he wishes to know, surely. This exact invitation would have driven him crazy some years ago - the sheer amount of things he could tell him, secrets, mysteries, conspiracies. 

Or, alternatively, Mycroft had thought of a house, somewhere central in London, for Sherlock to share with John. Or a flat, if they prefer. Granted, it is rather pedestrian, but he would gladly provide it. 

“If you do not know it yet, you need not name it?” As surprising as that is. Perhaps Sherlock wishes to keep it back, a favour that he can call in at any time. Mycroft finds that thought uncomfortable. He would rather have settled it today. 

Sherlock sits down, takes up the book, and starts reading, demonstratively. 

Well, then. Mycroft pushes himself up out of the chair, and says, hesitantly, “Once a week will be sufficient, so that would be Tuesday evening?” 

Sherlock makes no sign of having heard. 

Mycroft sighs. Why must Sherlock always make it so difficult? Why, when he is literally offering Sherlock everything that he could possibly want, does he have to refuse it in this way? Why would Sherlock give him a gesture as grand as bonding, and then not allow it to be acknowledged? 

Mycroft looks at Sherlock. His little brother. Sherlock is grown now, but still stubborn and childish. Unhinged. The greatest pride of his life, and also his greatest failure, until these last few years. 

Mycroft looks at him, and considers that there is one more thing he can say. He takes a breath, and says, the words rather unfamiliar on his lips, “Thank you.” 

Mycroft lets himself out, but he can see Sherlock’s face look up at him right when he exits. 

The message is received after all, he thinks.

 

 

 

 

 


	10. (John)

 

 

John is an arse, and he knows it.

Sherlock’s heat was... well, the way all heats tend to be. Sherlock’s scent was like a blanket covering the flat. John could hear Sherlock groaning and moaning in his room and moving on the bed in quick thrusts. Sherlock whimpered and groaned. Begged John to sedate him, to make it stop. 

And John offered to have sex with him. 

The regret is bitter in his mouth. Sherlock was out of his mind with it, John could see the pure panic on Sherlock’s face, and still he tried to convince him to do it. Because it might help, yeah, sure, but the truth is that John wanted it. That he thought that for once, he might get to do it. Because Sherlock couldn’t help himself. 

Sherlock said no, and John’s dizzyingly grateful for that. If Sherlock hadn’t, he’s sure they would have spent all night in an amazing rage of sweat and hormones and fucking... and then it would have worn off and they’d be picking up the pieces of a ruined friendship right now. 

Because all Sherlock has ever done is say _no_. 

That first evening at Angelo’s, when John was thinking of nothing but jumping this brilliant, glorious man, Sherlock said that he was married to his work. Later, the suppressants, the - well, all of it. Every interaction they ever had. 

Five years of no. 

And at the first chance of getting some from Sherlock, John asked like some love sick fool. 

When Sherlock died, John swore, he _swore_ , that if he could have him back, if he ever through some miracle could have Sherlock back again, that he’d see him for who he was. That he’d take what Sherlock really was offering. That he’d understand what Sherlock was capable of giving, and that that would be enough. More than enough. It was all he needed. 

So when the miracle actually happened, when Sherlock - cock, idiot, _Sherlock_ \- came back... John, after the sharp tug of pain at the faintest glimpse of him, at a hint of something more in his voice, at a touch, swore to let it be. 

That’s why he went ahead and got married. So that he’d have sex and love and all of it with Mary, a relationship, and he could have the rest with Sherlock. Separated, it made sense. 

John expects it to hang between them for a while after the heat. 

For Sherlock to look at him and remember what he said, how he reacted, and for it to be awkward. But it’s not, not really. Sherlock’s apparently willing to overlook it, or file it under ‘what happens during a heat’ or something. He probably deleted it, because he doesn’t seem any different. 

John comes home to find him in the middle of a pile of medical course books, and Sherlock immediately starts quizzing him on bonds and their effectiveness. John has to open the books to look some of it up, because he hasn’t studied any of that in years, but at least that feels pretty normal. And it’s about Mycroft, too, so of course Sherlock would want to know more about that now. John can’t blame him. 

While they’re researching, Sherlock comes to sit next to him on the sofa to point something out. Sherlock leans over his shoulder when he has the computer. Brushes next to him when they’re in the kitchen. 

And John enjoys every bit of it. 

That’s it, right? He’ll always take it. Whatever Sherlock gives. 

 

-

 

John already knows that Mycroft’s off bed rest from the texts he’s sent, but he’s still surprised when he leaves work the next evening – after a full day of snotty noses and bowel complaints and menstrual pain – and sees Mycroft standing there. 

Mycroft’s waiting for him by the entrance, shielded by an umbrella. “John. Do you have a moment?” Mycroft nods towards a coffee shop across the road. 

“Yeah, sure.” John zips his jacket, and turns the collar up. It’s drizzling. John looks at Mycroft. “You feeling okay?” 

“I am fine, thank you.” 

They start walking, and cross the road. John’s not entirely under Mycroft’s umbrella but about half of him is being saved from the rain by walking next to him anyway. He’s not sure, but he thinks that Mycroft’s doing it on purpose. So is this going to be a ‘thank you’ then? Checking up on how the heat went for Sherlock? Probably both, John thinks. 

John looks at Mycroft, outside like this. It’s strange without the curl of smoke around his face, or the flash of a lighter between his fingers. “You miss having a cigarette?” 

Mycroft seems surprised at the question. But he does answer, “I do, occasionally.” 

John can imagine. Not drinking would be annoying, too. John remembers a decanter of prime whisky in every office of Mycroft’s he’s ever been in. 

They walk inside. It’s a basic coffee shop - John’s been here before to pick up a quick cup of coffee or a pastry when coming out of work, or going in without breakfast. It’s fairly deserted at this hour. 

John orders a small latte at the counter. Mycroft asks for a cup of tea. 

They wait in silence for it to be made, but it doesn’t feel awkward. Not after that night in the hospital, or after everything else. They’ve seen each other through way worse, haven’t they? John remembers Sherlock’s funeral. Cursing Mycroft, wanting to hit him. Mycroft’s pale face as he took every single insult thrown his way. Mycroft would have taken the punches as well, John thinks now. 

He might have deserved some. 

John gets his coffee, and walks to a table by the window. Mycroft places his umbrella against the side of the table, opens the buttons on his coat, and sits down. Then looks at him, and says, “I have visited Sherlock earlier today.” 

John wraps his hands around his coffee, feeling the burn against his palms. “Right.”

“He mentioned continuing our…” Mycroft hesitates over the word, as if he’s not certain that he’s allowed to use it, “...bond, since it would be advantageous to my pregnancy.” 

Yeah, it would be. John nods. “You should.” 

Mycroft eyes him. “I would like your permission to do so.”

What? “You don’t need my permission.” Sherlock is Mycroft’s brother, John’s got nothing to do with it.

Mycroft’s eyes are focused on him, taking in a million tells, probably. “I would still like it.” 

“Why?” If there’s one thing John knows it’s that he has nothing over Sherlock. “We’re not...” If anyone can deduce exactly how much they’re not involved, it should be Mycroft. He might have thought it, at first - John’s never forgotten that ‘may we expect a happy announcement’ conversation - but Mycroft knows that it’s nothing more now. Of course he does. 

“There are many ways to have a bond, John.” Mycroft seems sure of that. “I do not doubt that he considers you to be an important part of his life.” He pauses. “I would not want to inconvenience you.” 

It’s said so delicately that John just laughs. “Yeah, you’re not _inconveniencing_ anything, trust me.” They’re not having wild sex. Or any sex at all. 

Mycroft nods briefly. 

“Really, you should.” John nods towards Mycroft’s stomach. “Good odds, now.” 

John has a sip of his cup. It’s strong coffee. 

He can see Mycroft’s stomach behind the table, actually. There’s a small Holmes in there. 

John’s not sure what to say. _You should see Sherlock doing research. He cares._ “Sherlock’s going to be good at it, I think.” Being an uncle. Judging by how much he’s reading now, he’s taking it seriously, for sure. “The baby, he’ll like it.” 

Mycroft doesn’t seem convinced. “Perhaps.” 

Mycroft’s not the type to play with her much, probably. It’ll all be books, John thinks. Music, maybe. Mycroft doesn’t seem like the type of parent to teach her how to ride a bike, or to play football. Hide and seek. Actually, John can see himself and Sherlock together in a couple of years, in the middle of Regent’s Park, some of Mycroft’s security standing by the side to make sure that they don’t damage the kid. “We could teach her how to ride a bike. Play with her.” 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “If you wish.” He seems more startled than John thought he would be. 

John stands. “Well, I should get home. Make sure he doesn’t burn down the house.” 

Mycroft gets up as well. He leaves his cup behind untouched, but he has a light, perfunctory smile. “I will see you later, John.” 

 

-

 

John takes the tube home. He wonders why Mycroft even bothered. Why did he think that he needed to ask permission? Was he just being polite? John’s never sure with Mycroft. 

John walks up the stairs, takes off his jacket, sits down in his chair, and announces to the room at large and mainly to Sherlock in the kitchen, “Mycroft was waiting outside the clinic. Wanted to talk about bonding with you again.”

Sherlock moves something. 

John glances at him. He can only see a mess of curls. 

Sherlock’s playing with his latest experiment, rabbit brains. They are, for some reason, a dark green. Florescent? Is this one of Bluebell’s cousins? “So you’re doing it, then?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock is still bent over his experiment, but he seems sure. 

It’s the right thing to do. John’s not sure what else he would have wanted him to say. Or well, maybe he is: _I want you, John_. Together with some fucking, that would do it. But Sherlock doesn’t want him, and this isn’t about him. So what he does is smile, and say, “Right, good.” 

John eats dinner in his chair, balancing a plate on his knees, because of the green rabbit parts being spread all over the kitchen table. He watches some TV. 

And then Sherlock cleans up, comes over to sit on the sofa next to him, and says, “Have you seen this?” 

So John reads the article with a small space between his leg and Sherlock’s. And then gives him his opinion, which turns into both of them watching TV, with Sherlock staying right there, occasionally commenting on the plot. 

And it all makes sense, like this. It works, doesn’t it? 

 

-

 

So after that, John goes to bed, and wanks. 

When Sherlock was in heat, John got off in his room right when they arrived there. He just pulled his trousers down and got to it, coming in under a minute all over his hand and the floor. 

It was the same when he came back from work and Baker Street was a haze of sweat and musk. John felt hopeful then, wild and wanting. 

And he did it again when Sherlock was sedated and the night felt like it would never end, a mix of shame and lust so heavy John couldn’t do anything else than pull himself off in anger, and wish it all away. 

But now it’s settled. Now, it’s all good again, and still John lies on his bed and touches himself. 

And yes, he does think of Sherlock. He thinks of kissing Sherlock, and the goddamn light in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock’s scent. Fucking him, rough. The hint of darkness in Sherlock’s voice. John doesn’t think of much else while pulling himself off. It feels good, for a moment or two. And then it’s just back to an idea that’ll never happen. 

It’s never going to be true.

 

 

 

 

 


	11. (Sherlock)

 

 

John should have been the alpha. 

Sherlock has always known what John thinks about sex, since John never stops thinking it. He’s not gay, he says, but he will hit on anyone. Look at anyone. And, Sherlock suspects, sleep with anyone. So that John was affected by his heat and offered him sex doesn’t matter. Sherlock’s not surprised. John feels bad about it, he can tell, but it’s okay. 

Sherlock has known that John wanted sex from him for a long time. He deduced it on that very first night. He turned him down, then. 

But now that John has been back for a while... John sits close, even when he has something else to do. John helps with his research. John makes jokes. They’re sharing the sofa now nearly every evening, often staying awake until after midnight. 

It makes Sherlock feel something strange. Very different from his heat, nothing like the deep, throbbing lust, the uncontrollable need. This is quieter, but... Sherlock is afraid to push it. Afraid that if he makes one wrong move, it will all fall down like a house of cards. 

John yawns, on those evenings, and closes his eyes. John smiles at him, and stays a bit more. When he does eventually leave, it is with a soft ‘good night,’ and Sherlock can feel his heart soar. 

It’s good. It’s amazing. It’s temporary - Sherlock knows that now more than ever. John is looking for someone to have sex with, he always is and he hasn’t stopped. John doesn’t care about gender, beta or omega. Sherlock has seen John eye up alphas with a challenging gleam in his eye, too. John is like that, he looks them over, and thinks of how he wants them in his bed, under him, over him. 

And Sherlock isn’t. Like that. 

He’s always given John cases instead. The thrill of it is what John likes even more than sex. And Sherlock’s the only one who can provide that for John, so as long as he does, John won’t leave. 

But John has never stopped looking for sex, too. 

Sherlock did think about it. In the first year that they knew each other it seemed like some interesting thought experiment: could he have sex with John if he had to? Sherlock thought about John’s touches. The details of John’s hair, his voice, his smile, and whether they would be enough. Whether he could quiet the world enough to slip into bed with him. 

He never dared to try. 

And then when Sherlock had to leave and spend two years without John, it wasn’t just a thought anymore. It became a vow, that if he came back, if he survived, he would give John everything and do anything to keep him close. Sherlock was prepared to have sex with John that evening he came back. He tried to be an alpha, someone who takes and dazzles, someone who overwhelms, who is bigger than life. John has always wanted that from him. 

But John was angry, and cold, and then he forgave him but Mary was there, and Sherlock knew that he would never have been enough for John anyway. He can’t give John what he really wants. He can’t give him a family, and something normal. He will never be a sweet beta woman. So he tried to be there for Mary because John chose her. 

Except that’s not who Mary was, either.

Sherlock gave all he was, sacrificed it all for John to make up for leaving him, for not being perfect, for not… And it didn’t work. He failed. 

But still John came back. 

And now they’re spending evenings together in an uncertain balance, and Sherlock soaks up every uneven second of it, because it is all of John he will ever have. 

 

-

 

Mycroft comes back on Tuesday evening. Sherlock’s fine with it, until Mycroft’s actually there and he has to look at him. 

Mycroft assuming that he can bribe him into this was as predictable as it was annoying - Sherlock doesn’t want some price like a child that needs to be promised sweets to be good. 

Mycroft thinks of it as something that needs to be repaid, regulated, a debt to be settled. But it’s not. It’s the first time that Sherlock saw Mycroft in a hospital bed, instead of the other way around. The first time that there is something that Mycroft needs of him. Mycroft, always more controlled, always bigger and better and smarter. Mycroft needs him now. 

Sherlock didn’t like bonding. He doesn’t want to deal with it again, Mycroft’s right about that. But he will. He will do it again, for as long as it takes. 

Mycroft walks in with a serious nod to John. And then a look at him. Some nervousness, an awkward understanding of what he is here for. He is not going to ask again, Sherlock knows, he’ll have to offer. 

“Right, I’ll just…” John looks upstairs. 

“No, stay.” Sherlock says it too fast, too desperate. He feels a prickle of unease. 

John hesitates. “I don’t think that I should…?” 

Sherlock looks at Mycroft, a quick glance, and Mycroft concedes. _Fine, if you must._ Mycroft turns towards John and says, “I have no objection to your presence, John.” 

John looks between them. “Sure. Okay.” He sits down on a chair. 

Sherlock’s not sure if Mycroft understands. Probably not. Mycroft doesn’t care, he only manipulates. Mycroft knows that Sherlock wants John here, so he made it happen. 

Mycroft looks at the sofa, and sits down delicately. Sherlock moves to sit next to him. 

Mycroft turns his neck. The mark is still there, half-healed, and Sherlock can feel a strange thrill looking at it. He instantly wants to press his teeth there again. It gathers in his chest, that urgent feeling of _he doesn’t smell like me enough. I need him to._

Sherlock leans forward. He smells Mycroft’s neck, first. Mycroft holds completely still, obviously uneasy. But Sherlock isn’t, he doesn’t think, just inhales. _Mine._ His mouth waters. It’s almost frightening how easy it is. His lips are close, near-tasting him, and then he opens his mouth, matches the mark, and bites it, lightly. Licks it with his tongue. 

Mycroft makes an abrupt sound at it, and reality falls back into him. Sherlock stops, what is he doing, it’s _Mycroft_ , it’s, he doesn’t… He looks up at John, who catches his eye, and nods, calmly. 

It helps. Sherlock breathes, and leans in again. His lips brush against the mark. He can feel Mycroft shiver under his lips. 

Mycroft leans back lightly, giving him permission, or unconsciously asking for it, Sherlock doesn’t know. With a suppressed groan, Sherlock bites. He can smell the sudden and sharp rise of Mycroft’s sweat, so good, and for a bright moment, this is all he possibly wants to do. 

Sherlock glances at John again, and catches just part of his expression. John’s mouth is slightly open, and he’s looking at them. He likes it. It reminds Sherlock of his heat, how John looked at him then. How John wanted him. 

Then he slowly lets go. He makes himself lean back. 

Mycroft is slow to lean away, too. He coughs. Then turns to sit against the sofa normally. He has a flush on his cheeks. 

John meets his eyes. He smiles awkwardly. “That was it, then?” 

It doesn’t have to be. Sherlock’s whole body wants to get close and lick and suck Mycroft’s neck for hours, until he’s entirely sure that Mycroft only smells of him, that he’s all his. But he suppresses the urge. He can’t find his voice for a moment, and then says, “The books say only a small reconnection is necessary.” 

Mycroft, in his peripheral vision, looks as if he’s not going to move for a couple of minutes. 

Sherlock finds it hard to look at him. It’s not like sex. There’s no arousal, luckily. It’s that it’s intimate. If he could do that with John he… the thought gives him a full-body shudder, his skin bursting out in goose bumps. Sherlock can feel his breath stutter as he looks at him. John, John, John. 

Sherlock tears his gaze away, and blinks. 

Mycroft has seen something of that, because he says, quietly, “If this is too uncomfortable for you, I will understand, Sherlock.” 

_No!_ The thought comes fast and hard, the alpha rearing his head. Sherlock breathes, and then looks at Mycroft. “Don’t be absurd.” 

Mycroft seems almost glad of the insult, his expression settling back into familiar disdain. But still it feels off, between them, all of it. As if the walls are closing in, and it’s all too much, too close by. 

John, maybe picking up on it, says, “I told Mycroft that we’re going to teach her how to ride a bike, what do you think?” 

Sherlock focuses on the question. Her, John means Mycroft’s baby, but a bike? Sherlock doesn’t know much about child development, they always look fairly similar when he sees them - not too much to deduce, their motives tend to be straightforward. But he does know that riding a bike is years away. Six? Seven? 

John must have seen his confusion, because he goes on, amused, “Did you delete how?” He laughs. “I can teach you, too.” 

Mycroft gets in on it, “Perhaps a pair of training wheels?” 

But Sherlock is still stuck on the thought that this is _years_ away. And John is planning to do that. That’s… Sherlock can’t look at him, for a moment. 

John shrugs, and his smile falls away. “Well, it doesn’t matter.” 

And no, no, it does matter. Sherlock thinks fast to make that look on John’s face come back, that hopeful look - his gaze skips around the room, and he quickly says, “I can teach her the violin.” 

Mycroft sighs. “Oh, lord, Sherlock... only if she wants to, please.” 

“Got some traumas there, do you?” John’s smiling again. 

“Yes, a decade of listening to me being better.” Sherlock’s mind is on John still, John is planning to be here years from now. It doesn’t mean anything, he knows, John might just say that. Or he thinks that he’ll be married by then, but that they’ll still be friends. That’s probably likely. 

John asks Mycroft, “You played as well?” 

Mycroft says, “Yes, but we are not all as musically talented as Sherlock, sadly.” 

“Still, you tried for ten years?” John seems intrigued.

Mycroft nods. “Naturally.” Then, after a moment of thought, “Somewhat less, I went away to university when Sherlock was eleven.” 

Sherlock can feel the old irritation rise to the surface now. “You were glad to go.” To leave me with _them_. Alone. 

Mycroft eyes him. “To leave home? Yes.” 

He doesn’t say the rest: _To leave you? No._ But Sherlock can hear it anyway. He’s not sure whether he’d rather have heard the alternative.  
He looks away. 

Then says, “I have a case.” He doesn’t, actually. 

Mycroft rolls his eyes, but pushes himself up out of the sofa. He’s compensating for his added baby weight now. Sherlock can see it in the way he moves. 

“Next Tuesday.” Sherlock says it, knowing that it’ll surprise him, and it does. Mycroft stills to looks at him. 

He says, carefully, “Does eight PM suit you?” 

John tends to be home around seven, which is something that Mycroft knows. “Fine.”

Mycroft says, “John,” and then leaves. 

Sherlock lets himself fall down on the sofa as soon as Mycroft clears the door. He holds his hands over his face. Annoying, so tedious, it’s always the same when it comes to Mycroft. It’s better to focus on that than on the warmth still spreading through his body from bonding, some sure sense of ownership. Or the confusing whirl of John nearby. 

John asks, from his chair, “Is it better when I’m here?” 

Yes. Sherlock’s not sure he could make that feeling work if he didn’t have John to look at. John seems as if he doesn’t know that he’s the reason that he feels all these things, all these conflicting, terrible senses rising in him, always. 

John is such a conductor of light but he brings everything else as well, prickling and overwhelming waves. The sense that he needs to see every detail, every single thing that somehow makes up the whole of John, and treasure it for the brief moments that John is his. 

“It’s normal if it’s awkward, I think. With him being your brother. I think most people would be…” John shifts. “Well, think it’s hard.” John is trying to sound understanding. 

Sherlock doesn’t like it. “I’m not most people.” 

John raises his eyebrows. “No.” He trails off. “No… you’re not.” 

He seems sad about that, for some reason. 

 

-

 

The next Tuesday, Mycroft comes by again. And the next. 

He’s getting bigger. His growing stomach throws the lines of his suits off and he seems aware of it, pressing down on his waistcoat and fastening his jacket whenever he stands, carefully running his fingers over the rows of buttons to be certain that they are closed. It’s made him even lazier, too, sitting down as soon as he arrives. Slower to leave. 

Sherlock gets used to the feeling of bonding. It still shifts something inside of him, but he can suppress it enough that it seems to live in the background. John is always there, talking about something or other, and it’s a relief to focus on him instead. 

Mrs. Hudson has started bringing them biscuits in advance of Mycroft coming over, twittering away about his pregnancy and how she hopes that he’ll bring the baby by some time. Sherlock ignores her, John accepts the biscuits, and Mycroft tries to talk to her as little as possible. 

What is harder to get used to is the small, deep tug of contentment whenever he sees Mycroft now. The sense that this is how it needs to be. 

Sherlock still despises Mycroft, sitting there, drinking tea and carefully eating his third biscuit of the evening. Mycroft is still saying the same things, behaving in the same way, his words pressing on old sores between them, referring to shameful, annoying, distant memories. Sherlock still feels young around him, unprepared, never good enough. 

But he also feels as if he needs Mycroft to be there, as if he wants him there, and he usually doesn’t throw him out. Mycroft doesn’t stay that long, but sometimes they manage half an hour or more of conversation between the three of them without any tension at all. 

John picks up on it, saying, “You’re getting along better now, aren’t you?” And then, with a grin, “Maybe bonding wasn’t that bad of an idea.” 

Sherlock sulks at that, because it’s true, but it’s all because of some biological reaction. It’s not like it’s real. So the next time he plays his violin, sharp and loud, and John walks Mycroft out. 

 

-

 

They take another case. It’s a simple one, really - a string of burglaries. 

John manages to catch the burglar before Sherlock does, jumping onto his back, and Sherlock can feel his heart miss a beat when he sees John like that. John’s fast and rough, knocking the man out with two fast punches. 

John’s in a great mood that evening, there is a bounce to his step. And so Sherlock, in some haze of happiness, asks him to go to Angelo’s. 

John’s face falls. 

Sherlock forgot. Of course they can’t go, of course not. There are too many memories, they haven’t been since he’s been back from the dead. Three years of not going. 

But John says, “Okay, yeah, let’s.” 

The dinner is more solemn than Sherlock thought it would be. Angelo is more than happy to see them. John’s quieted down a lot, but he does smile at him from across the table, and so Sherlock does his best to smile back. Sherlock tells him about some case from long ago to see him relax, and for it to feel right between them. That’s all he wants.

When they’re walking back home, John says, something sour in his voice, “It’s been five years now. Since the pink lady.” 

“Hm.” Sherlock can remember that evening between them as some wild, hopeful dream. As something that he ruined before it began. If only he would have _known_ … No. He doesn’t know anything more now, only how much he would end up hurting John. How much it would hurt to know him. 

He can’t hide the flash of pain on his face well enough, because John frowns, and says, “Sherlock…” 

_I’m sorry._ It would be easy to say these days, because Sherlock is sorry for everything. For every single thing he has ever done to John. For needing him and wanting him and craving him and not giving him anything good in return. 

But that’s not what John wants. John wants Sherlock Holmes, the detective, clever and admirable and wonderful, the best and wisest. So Sherlock pulls himself together, and grins. “Great case.” 

Only he’s not sure that he can be that any more. Especially when John looks at him with searching eyes, and says, “It was. Yeah.” 

Sherlock smiles at John, a quick, senseless, hopeful thing. 

And then looks away before he can reveal more.

 

 

 

 

 


	12. (Mycroft)

 

 

It is high summer. Mycroft is well into his third trimester, and it is as incredible to know that he really made it this far, as it is tiring to actually have to live through it. 

When he first considered this, he had allowed for the possibility of a second child along the line. It would have to be quite fast after the first one, if it even was possible, but he had kept it in mind. Now, he is entirely decided that one will be more than enough. 

There is something good in it, of course, some blessedness of knowing that she will be born soon. But it is quite small compared to the sheer determination it takes to get through a full day. His lower back hurts constantly unless the pressure is relieved by well-placed pillows. His left hip stabs pain at every step, and stairs are especially challenging, where he wants to press a hand there to keep it in place. Lying down fully means a burning down his throat, walking means the pressure on his bladder increases. It is a constant fight against gravity no matter which way he bends or turns. 

He is not very large in terms of how much he is showing, but that has more to do with his height than a lack of weight gain. It is difficult, because he will and he does eat for her, with great delight at times, but then there is the sense of getting heavier and more unwieldy with every passing day. Angry red stretch marks have appeared on the underside of his belly, some on his sides as well. 

He finds himself a near-ridiculous thing to glimpse in the mirror. 

He has kept his body mostly private for all of his life, it certainly never quite managed to give another much aesthetic pleasure, but still it is quietly horrifying to see it change at such speed. To be stretched with life week after week. And along with being bonded, it feels as if there is nothing within himself that is familiar or his own anymore. The entirety of himself belongs to this endeavour. 

Still, it is not as miserable as the first months of nausea were. The physical aches and pains are easier to bear on the whole, and less disruptive to his schedule. It is very clear now why he is suffering this, and with a definite end date in sight, so that does tint it towards a temporary challenge. Something to manage for just a little while more.

And on a work level, showing as much as he does has been interesting. While Mycroft had thought that many would be put off by him being there, he never accounted for the effect of his general height and presence combined with an obvious third-trimester pregnancy. He is capable of stopping alphas in their tracks now. One look will make someone crumble. Even the more difficult cases they deal with have proven to be rather susceptible to his techniques in interrogation. 

Anthea notes with some satisfaction, “They’re even more afraid of you now, sir.” 

Mycroft nods and replies, “That is how it should be, naturally.” But in truth he is somewhat relieved. He hides that skilfully, and does his best to work the more visible cases. 

He has weekly doctors’ appointments now, where Dr. Mehta does a sonogram and estimates the baby’s weight. Even if his daughter were to be born right this moment, she would be viable for life, with no serious danger. Every additional day he carries her now is for her lungs to finish developing, and her to gain some more weight and nutrients, but he is very nearly done. 

It is because of Sherlock that he made it to this point, and Mycroft is deeply aware of that. Uncomfortably so, at times. He wanted this for himself, he knew that he would bear the burden, but now part of it has fallen on Sherlock, and it is an uneasy feeling to have this much to thank him for. 

More than just uneasy, it seems unjust. Mycroft feels that he should at least suffer in some way or other in return for Sherlock’s sacrifice, but the uncomfortable truth is that the bonding moments themselves are shamefully pleasurable.

John is always there at Sherlock’s request, and Mycroft agrees that his presence is helpful. John is often up for a conversation of some sort, while Sherlock has difficulty looking him in the eye right after. Mycroft does not know what it feels like to him, but he has some idea of the intensity. Every muscle goes slack into a warm, sweet drowsiness. He feels so right, so at home, as if he could stay like that forever. 

Mycroft can imagine much better now why people seem so very intent on the feeling. 

He has gotten some congratulations on his bonding - all of which he quickly dismissed, confusing people, but it is not something to congratulate him on. It is an action taken out of necessity, and that is it. 

Mycroft had thought that Sherlock might still change his mind. That he would declare it too difficult, too uncomfortable, or that he would simply say no out of spite. Or, alternatively, that a day would come where Sherlock was on a case and it was simply not possible. Mycroft would not have blamed him. 

But week after week, Sherlock bonds with him. 

Then, reaching the eight month, Mycroft thought that perhaps now Sherlock would announce that he has helped him long enough, and that it is time for her to be born. But he says no such thing. Sherlock seems fully prepared to continue bonding until he gives birth. And Mycroft could tell him that they could stop now, but since they have already been doing this for months, an extra three weeks or so does not seem like something he should fight over. 

In fact, he is very grateful for them. 

 

-

 

It has been a long, warm day, and his legs ache. Mycroft’s feet are swollen, his joints are painfully pressing as he walks up the stairs. But it is Tuesday, 8 PM. 

Mycroft can already hear John’s voice inside 221b. He is joking, or at least he sounds like it. Sherlock’s reply is muffled, short, but Mycroft can hear from the tone of his voice that he is amused. 

John and Sherlock seem to have settled into their shared domesticity again. Mycroft is not certain whether it is because he sees them with much greater frequency now than he ever did before, but he can often pick up on the mood between them. There is hurt still there, hidden not too deep below the surface. But John, if his comments are anything to go by, seems certain of staying close to Sherlock for life. And Sherlock, for his part, looks at John as if he is an unexpected treasure, something that he never thought he would have sitting across from him again. 

Mycroft is only briefly a part of their home, but still he finds their connection striking. Mycroft does not doubt it is, in fact, love. Even though John always denies it, Mycroft has the suspicion that for Sherlock, if he were to speak truthfully, there would not be a single moment of hesitation. 

Mycroft knocks on the door, and lets himself in. As always, when he first catches the smell of Sherlock - the sharpness of an alpha, very slightly sweetened by what he is still ashamed to know is his own influence - the baby moves. She has not turned yet, right now she has positioned herself sideways, which means there is a very awkward stretch to his stomach, and her feet push into his side. He puts a calming hand there, and walks in. “Sherlock, John.” 

Sherlock looks up and nods, while John smiles and asks, “How are you doing?” 

Mycroft holds on to the side of the sofa and lowers himself down next to Sherlock, a moment that stretches his muscles, until he sinks down in the low cushions. “Fine, thank you.” 

He holds his hand to his stomach again, and can feel her feet stomping in a fast pattern. 

John looks at it, and his eyes turn amused. “She’s kicking again?” 

“Constantly,” Mycroft admits. Sitting like this, his belly presses under his ribs, so he leans his shoulders back and stretches against the arch of his lower back. 

Sherlock sits up, and glances at his neck. He always looks as if wants it. They never wait long, either. 

Mycroft turns so Sherlock can reach him. He can feel the sofa cushions pressing down. And then there’s Sherlock’s breath on his neck. The quick inhale, and then his teeth. He does it fast now, but it is not any less intense. It pushes a wave of crackling pleasure through Mycroft, forces him to exhale with a barely contained groan. For a moment, he does not feel the baby kicking, or his back, or anything, except the sheer satisfaction of this. 

Sherlock licks over his neck very briefly, a flash of tongue, and Mycroft thinks that he perhaps doesn’t realise that he does it. That if Sherlock would know, he certainly would not want to, but it makes Mycroft feel a shiver. Then a suck, hard, and it’s another wave of heat, flushing his cheeks. 

When Sherlock lets go, Mycroft realises that his eyes are closed, and that he is leaning back, relaxed, feeling as if every single thing has been set right. 

And then the weight of his belly comes through again. He moves, so his back is to the sofa, and presses his hand where she is kicking eagerly. _Yes, I know, my dear. It is quite something._

And then there’s a movement from Sherlock. Mycroft’s eyes open to see that Sherlock is looking at his belly with fascination. Her kicks are visible under his waistcoat. Barely, but they are, and Sherlock seems flabbergasted at the sight. 

Mycroft can feel a sense of pride. _Yes, there she is, this is why we do this._ He moves his hand aside, and allows Sherlock to touch him. Sherlock reaches out hesitantly, so Mycroft takes his hand, and presses it where he knows he will feel the kicks quite clearly. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rise, and he looks at his hand, and then up at Mycroft with a smile slowly breaking over his face. “Oh!” 

“Yes.” Mycroft can feel some emotion at this, some sense of it being too close, really. He has not allowed anyone to touch him like this except his doctor, but more than that, it is good to see the surprised joy on Sherlock’s face. Mycroft lets go of Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock leaves it there for another moment, as if reluctant to say goodbye to the sensation.

“You felt her?” John is looking at Sherlock with something warm and absolutely loving in his eyes. 

Sherlock’s face says it all. “Yes, it’s much more…” He frowns briefly, looks at John, and announces, “She’s strong.” 

_Try having that happening inside of you when you are trying to sleep._ Still, it is a compliment, and Mycroft takes it as such. “She is.” 

“You should feel it, John.” 

Mycroft frowns. He really has no desire to be felt up any more than this. 

But luckily John says, “Oh, no, I really don’t need to,” and eyes him with a quick smile. John clearly knows that Mycroft does not wish to be touched. 

But Sherlock’s face falls. So Mycroft, still feeling overly magnanimous after bonding, and yes, he is aware that he owes much to John as well, holds the side of the sofa, and pulls himself up. It is nearly impossible to do with any finesse now. He walks over to John. 

John looks at him in shock. Mycroft takes John’s hand, oddly aware that this is John, his skin somewhat cool, harder than Sherlock’s, and puts it to his side. John knows how to feel for the kicking. He holds his hand there, pressing on his stomach. 

For a long moment nothing happens, and John waits with an expectant look in his eyes. 

Mycroft can feel something at this as well. It’s very different from Sherlock, of course, but he knows that he is lucky to have this – others who care about the wellbeing of his child. The truth is that he did not know that he would have it at all. Or that he even wished for it. But now that he has this, Sherlock’s deep smile and John’s trusting expression, he finds it more touching that he would have thought possible. 

And then she kicks, and John’s face changes. “Wow, you’re right, she’s got quite the kick there!” She does it again, and again, and John seems perfectly happy for a moment, laughing at Sherlock. 

And then he pulls his hand back, still smiling, but there is something darker about him. 

Does he still think of the child that he thought was his? Mycroft assumes so. It was not John’s, but none of them realised that for a long time. John must have wanted this for himself. Mycroft feels for him, more so now than he thought to before. To wish for this, nearly get it and then not receive it, it is a familiar fear. One that he can imagine all too easily. 

Mycroft lets John be, and turns to Sherlock instead, who actually seems proud. “Alphas are more muscular, even in utero.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Yes, we’re all aware.” It figures that he would end up raising a second one. 

Sherlock only grins. 

Mycroft is up now, and he was ready to leave, but John says, “Do you fancy some Bakewell tart? Mrs. Hudson made one earlier.” 

And Mycroft could go, he has plenty of work to finish at home. Truthfully, he would quite like a hot bath and an early night, but he knows what such an offer is worth, how very rare it still is, and therefore he says, “She is a rather competent baker.”

Sherlock scoffs, but as Mycroft sits back down again he catches Sherlock’s slight smile as well. 

John gets the tart, and tea. 

 

-

 

Two and a half weeks later, Mycroft wakes early in the morning with an unusual nervousness. Today. 

He is not allowed to eat or drink, so he avoids the kitchen. 

He takes care of as many odds and ends at work as he can. Anthea comes by to collect the latest files, and she gives him a rare smile. “Good luck, sir.”

Mycroft tilts his head. 

Then he gets into a car. It’s a sunny day, the 29th of August. London is bustling. 

Mycroft walks into the hospital himself, this time. Past the front desk, into the lift. The familiar corridor, the same white of the walls, the smell, something he did not think he remembered from last time he was here but he does. It is sharp in his nose, and his stomach sinks with a sudden fear. 

He takes a deep breath, and goes on. 

Mycroft has made sure that neither John nor Sherlock will know that he is in the hospital until his child is born. He had never assumed that they might wish to be involved before, but now he thinks that if they know they might come over, and he does not wish them to. 

He started this alone, and he intends to finish it alone. 

He is forced to undress and wear a frankly ridiculous hospital gown. 

There are personal, embarrassing questions, and waiting in between, an hour where he is very conscious of his stomach. A birth is a parting of ways, a giving up of self, he is aware. He will never be this again, and while he is looking forward to the end, he can feel a sense of loss as well. 

A nurse comes to attach his IV. Then another nurse with a list of questions, and then he is wheeled to an operating room. 

Mycroft feels, quite curiously, alone. He did not want anyone here, of course, but maybe it is more a sense of singleness, aloneness in the way that he knows he will never truly be again after this. 

The anaesthesiologist introduces herself, and he can see some details – alpha, she has children herself, at least two, possibly three - but most of it passes him by in the rush of the moment. He curls over on himself, and there is a sharp pinch, and the sedation of the epidural pools down his legs in an odd, cold sensation, as if he’s stepping into water. 

Mycroft lies back, and sees the ceiling. The bright lights sting his eyes. He can feel a brief sense of panic, hard on his chest, but controls his breathing. 

The face of the anaesthesiologist comes in view, then his surgeon, a sheet is pulled up in front of his eyes, and it starts. 

The birth of his daughter. 

He will not want to remember this moment, the utter uselessness of lying there and being pulled apart. It seems the worst of indignities, something he would rather not have consciously experienced. 

Mycroft can feel pressure, a bizarre sensation that he tries to breathe through. 

There is a feeling of pulling, of emptiness. And they hold something up over the curtain, bloodied and yellow. There’s a faint cry, and he can feel a sense of distance. As if it cannot be real. 

They wrap her up, and show her to him. He sees a flash of a small face, her eyes. Mycroft feels some confusion, some protectiveness. Where will they take her? When can he have her back? That is it. He does not feel the expected immense rush of love for this thing. 

They sew him up, clean him off, and wheel him to his room. And then a nurse puts her in his arms, and Mycroft can actually look at her. His child. 

He checks her eyes, her hands and feet, feeling for a second as if he is inspecting something utterly foreign to him. As if she could not possibly have come from his body. 

And then she cries, and he can feel a response, his body wanting to comfort. His stomach, through the sedation, cramps sharply, and he tries not to think of the pain. 

She was worth it, all of it. 

Whoever she will become.

 

 

 

 

 


	13. (John)

 

 

It’s been reminding John of his wedding, this. Watching Sherlock wait for the baby to be born. 

Sherlock tried so hard to plan that wedding, to get the details just right. John couldn’t care less about the wedding day, so he was mostly glad that at least Sherlock was into it. Or not _glad_ so much. It felt like a betrayal, too. That Sherlock didn’t try to talk him out of it, not once. 

Sherlock could have said something. Anything. 

But now, Sherlock has been reading the baby books, and looking up on YouTube how to change a nappy. He’s preparing in all seriousness, and John has to admit that besides the occasional sting of memory, it’s amusing. Because it’s one thing to see Sherlock use that great brain of his to deduce a crime scene, but it’s quite another to hear him say with the same amount of seriousness, “A newborn has a very fragile skull, John.” As if it’s brand new information. 

He’s been dutifully bonding to Mycroft as well. Sherlock won’t like hearing it, but bonding seems to have made him feel stable in a way that John’s never seen before. The hours before Mycroft comes over, Sherlock gets a bit twitchy, as if he’s waiting for a fix. And then as soon as Mycroft’s here, something in him calms down. Sherlock wants to do it, John realises. Or his body wants to, anyway. 

It’s still a bit intense to watch them bond like that. It doesn’t excite him, not really, but John will admit to a thought or two of sitting in front of Sherlock and asking him for some of that, as well. It wouldn’t do much for him, he knows that, but he’s sure he’d enjoy it anyway. 

In all, it’s a good thing, this baby. Something that has Sherlock looking forward. 

And John finds that he is, too. 

It’s because Mycroft is coming over so often, otherwise they never would have gotten that involved. John can feel the idea of a little one in Baker Street shaping in his mind as well. John’s not sure how much babysitting they’ll do, or how much Mycroft will allow them to, really. But he wouldn’t mind having her around a bit. 

He does think of Mary in all of this, still, but they never got that far. He never got to see her baby. So John smiles, too, when Sherlock talks about it. It’ll be fine. 

They’re good, too, these days. Close, really. Friends - obviously. 

That doesn’t stop John from putting a hand on himself and squeezing slowly whenever it gets to be too much. Imagining Sherlock lying behind him in bed, Sherlock’s cock pressing against his arse, hot and hard. 

As long as it’s not an issue between them, it works, John thinks. 

 

-

 

And then she’s born. 

It’s a Saturday evening, and John’s just gotten home. He’s just taking off his shoes, when Sherlock’s phone goes. Sherlock takes the call with an annoyed expression that quickly changes into surprise, a frown, and then a grin as he jumps up. Sherlock ends the call, and says to him, “Mycroft has given birth. They’re both fine.” 

And John laces up his shoes again, and they’re off. 

It’s a much nicer taxi ride than the one a couple of months ago. Now there’s a sense of expectation, of joy. Sherlock’s tapping his foot up and down. 

“Hey, you’re an uncle now.” John says it as a joke, but Sherlock turns to him, and nods seriously. 

“I am.” 

John laughs. Trust Sherlock to see it as some duty that he has to perform just right, that he has to study for, and prepare. 

They walk into the hospital, and Sherlock takes a soft little breath before they reach Mycroft’s room that makes John smile again. He’s _nervous_. And then he opens the door. It’s the same thing as so many months ago - Mycroft in a single room, on a bed. He looks tired, oddly washed out in a white gown, but he’s holding a small wrapped bundle. 

Sherlock walks in fast, John behind him. 

Well, then. They did it. John smiles. 

Sherlock is immediately crowding over Mycroft’s bed and staring at the baby, so John nods at Mycroft. “How are you doing?” 

“The epidural has not completely worn off. Presumably I will feel worse later, but for now…” He looks at his daughter, and his meaning is clear. 

“Congratulations,” John hears himself say. “You did it, she’s here.” 

Mycroft smiles a private smile. “Yes, indeed.” 

John looks at the baby. She looks like any other newborn he has ever seen, a red face, with a shadow of hair on her head. She’s not too small, John notes, a good birth weight. 

Sherlock, extremely carefully, touches her cheek with a single finger. She opens her mouth in response and turns her face towards him. He looks briefly startled, and then smiles. 

Mycroft says, something weary in his voice, “I suppose you want to hold her?”

Sherlock swallows, and then says, clearly, “Yes.” 

Mycroft hands her over with a look that absolutely means _drop my child and I will personally rip your limbs apart_ , but Sherlock is very cautious. John finds it surprisingly touching, Sherlock, still in his coat, holding this small baby in his arms. It’s his face that does it, though. Sherlock is looking down at her with something between panic and fascination. 

John can feel his heart swell just watching it. 

Mycroft catches his eye, too, and John smiles at him. _Yeah, look at him. Already crazy about her, and she’s not even a day old._

Sherlock does not see any of this. He looks as if he barely dares to breathe in her direction, but he can’t tear his eyes away either. 

It seems as if he’s not about to let go of her any time soon, so John pulls up a chair for Sherlock that he sits himself down on with care not to jostle her. John puts a chair for himself next to him. He’s not nearly as enamoured with her as Sherlock seems to be, so he looks at Mycroft instead. “Did it go okay, then?” 

“As well as could be expected.” 

John doesn’t want to get into the details here. He can see on the chart that it was a caesarean, so Mycroft probably wasn’t allowed to eat beforehand. “You want anything? To drink, or eat?” 

“No, thank you.” 

They both look back at Sherlock. 

The baby’s been pretty quiet, but now she’s making some small, sniffling sounds. She’s not crying outright, just complaining. 

John thought that Mycroft would offer to take her back, but he doesn’t. She’s pulling a face, moving her mouth, and then her eyes blink open. 

They’re that dark blue all baby’s eyes are. 

Sherlock says, “Good evening.” He’s completely serious, not a note of hilarity in his low baritone. “I am your uncle.” He hesitates. “Sherlock Holmes.” He nods at her. “It is an honour to meet you.” 

Jesus. The corner of Mycroft’s mouth is curling up into a smile, and John can feel himself smile, too. “She can’t understand you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock looks up, vaguely insulted. “People speak to children. It’s good for their verbal development.” 

John has a sudden flash of how this is going to be, Sherlock around a baby. He’s going to adore her, isn’t he? John shares another look with Mycroft. _Dear god._

They both watch him some more. 

Then Sherlock says, seemingly out of nowhere, “You’re going to name her after Grand-mere.”

John looks up from his hands. He has no idea how Sherlock suddenly deduced that. Or why. Also, _Grand-mere_? 

Mycroft glances at Sherlock with a put-upon expression. “...I am, yes.” 

John risks asking Mycroft, “Your grandmother was French?” It’s pretty rare for Sherlock to say anything about their family at all. It’s not like John talks a lot about his either. Sherlock’s parents seem normal enough, though. Although seeming is one thing, he knows. 

Sherlock replies, “She lived in Calais.” 

Mycroft speaks on, “She married a Holmes after the first World War. I spent part of my childhood there, mostly before Sherlock was born. She was quite a character.” 

“A painter,” Sherlock says. 

“Oh really? You have any of her work?” 

“Sadly, no.” Mycroft smiles a brief smile. “Since she was also quite fond of destroying her paintings after she was done.”

Figures. John likes her already. “So, what was her name then?” 

Mycroft says, “Violet Holmes.” 

“Violet.” That’s nice, actually. John was half expecting something Victorian and obscure. “I like it.” Not that Mycroft cares what he thinks, probably. 

But Sherlock nods with some pride, as if it was all his idea. “Yes.” 

They both look at her. She seems like a Violet. 

Eventually, Mycroft starts looking rather pale and tired, so John says, “Right, well, you can see her again later, but maybe we should go home?” He looks at Mycroft. “Let them get some rest?” 

Sherlock seems startled, still looking at Violet. But he nods. As he gets up and hands her back, Sherlock’s eyes skip to Mycroft’s neck once more, but he doesn’t mention it. Neither does Mycroft. They’re done now, aren’t they? 

When they walk out, John can see a smile on Sherlock’s face. 

“You happy then?” 

“The birth of a child is considered good luck in all cultures, John.” Sherlock says it with such a look of mischievousness that John can feel it down to his toes. He averts his eyes, but Sherlock must have seen something of his reaction, because he walks closer, enough to bump his arm as they stride, and it’s comforting. It’s electric. It’s all John wants. 

And it’s not nearly enough. 

When they’re home, John sits down on the sofa in a calculated move. It’s sad. He knows it is. But then Sherlock wordlessly hands him a cup of tea and sits next to him. 

John leans more into the cushions. It’s as though he can feel the air between them, warm and heavy. 

Sherlock doesn’t seem to realise any of it. But then he is just there, looking at him with an open expression. Not reading for once, or in the middle of a case, he’s right there, and John can feel the weight of it. For how long has he wanted something like this? For how many years did he think of reason after reason as to why he could never ask or say or show, because he’s not gay or into alphas and he’s angry and Mary and… there’s nothing now. Nothing at all to keep him from this, except that Sherlock doesn’t want it. 

Which is fine, just fine. John smiles at him. A bit wistfully, he knows. 

Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice. 

 

-

 

The next day, Sherlock’s in a mood. 

It starts out just like any bit of annoyance - he complains about not having any cases, about not smoking, so John tries to distract him a bit. 

Second day’s worse. Sherlock throws books, rolls his eyes. Doesn’t want to eat. He doesn’t look at cases, either. 

And by the end of the week, he’s barely speaking. 

John goes to work, comes home hours late because of another doctor being out, and Sherlock’s not done a single thing while he was gone. He’s still lying on the sofa, back turned to him. John asks, worried now, “Sherlock?” And as he turns around John, for a brief, terrifying second thinks that he’s in heat again. Sherlock’s hair is in disarray, and he looks agitated. But he doesn’t smell like it. “...You all right?”

Sherlock turns away again. 

John is mentally running down whether he needs to phone Mycroft about Sherlock possibly wanting to use, but he can hardly disturb him now when he’s just had a baby, when, oh. Right. “Is it the bond?” 

Sherlock’s shoulders tense.

Of course it is. John should have seen it before. He just never really thought of what Sherlock and Mycroft had as the same thing that makes people come to his office after a bonded one has died, asking why they should even live on. It ruins people, breaking a bond. 

They don’t have to stop bonding, though, if it hurts that much. But then John’s pretty sure that Mycroft was only doing it because they had to. John doesn’t think that Mycroft would mind a visit, at least. “Do you want to go see how he’s doing? He’s at home now.” 

“No.” 

John sits down on his chair. Oh, Sherlock. He says, without thinking, “Well, if you could do it with me I’d...”

He realises his mistake when Sherlock’s head snaps up. “I can’t!”

It was just an offhand comment, but John’s mind goes there as well now, a heat, rutting, biting his neck, Sherlock claiming him as his. “No, yeah, of course not.” _Don’t say shit like that, Watson, it’s not funny._ John can feel it stick in his throat, but he tries to smile. “No, it wouldn’t be the real thing, would it?” Not like how it is with Mycroft.

 

 

 

 


	14. (Sherlock)

 

 

The baby’s born, Mycroft’s fine, it’s all over now, so Sherlock takes his suppressants again. The first dose doesn’t do much. The second sits heavy under his skin. 

John gets a picture on his phone of Violet. Sherlock doesn’t know whether John asked for it, or whether Mycroft is that proud of his offspring that he actually sent it to John, but even just glimpsing the picture makes him feel a pang of need so strong that he has to stop looking. 

John’s noticed, of course. Sherlock hates it. It’s evidence, once again, of how very easily his body is manipulated. How dependant it is. Craving Mycroft - really, it’s humiliating. 

John offers to go see them. “Maybe if you can spend some time there it’ll help?” 

But Sherlock can’t tell him that the reason why he can’t go is because he’s not sure whether he’ll be able to stop himself from bonding. The baby smelled like Mycroft, but even more concentrated, like something important, something to be held. His body thinks that she’s _his_ , and that’s unnecessary and idiotic, so he needs to stop thinking about it. 

Three nights later, Sherlock steals John’s phone to look at the picture, and tries to push down the wave of emotion that even looking at her brings. He feels as if he’s being cut into pieces, just at the idea of her. 

He tries a case next, because obviously he just needs some diversion. 

It’s horrible. He can’t keep the facts straight, can’t decide on anything. And then when they do find the killer, it was so incredibly obvious all along he feels like an idiot. Even Lestrade asks whether he’s all right. 

Of course John says, “Mycroft’s had his baby.” As if that’s the reason. Lestrade asks about that, and John shows the picture on his phone. He smiles, and Sherlock can’t even listen to it, it’s impossible! 

Then John starts making noises that they can invite them over, if Mycroft is up to it, and no, they can’t. Eventually, Sherlock texts Mycroft, admitting defeat: “Bond more difficult to break than anticipated. Stay away. SH.” 

Mycroft replies immediately, despite it being three in the morning. “Understood. M” 

Sherlock stares at the message, and then presses the call button. It rings once. Mycroft’s voice, a sigh. “Sherlock.” He sounds absolutely exhausted. 

“Tired, are you?” There’s the faint sound of the baby, not quite a cry. Sherlock can feel himself listening for it. 

“I have a newborn, what did you think?” Mycroft sounds just as irritated as Sherlock feels. 

“Is she all right?” Has she gained weight? Is she eating well? Sleeping? 

Another sigh. “Perfectly fine. Except that she wakes at least five times a night, and hasn’t slept for more than a two hour stretch since leaving the hospital.” 

“Did you try…” 

“I’ve tried everything, Sherlock!” Mycroft sounds on edge. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, she is crying.” Sherlock can hear her thin, sharp wails picking up through the phone line. 

Mycroft is waiting for his reply, so he says, “Yes, bye.” 

Sherlock lies back, his heart beating heavily. He turns around in bed. 

This is ridiculous. 

 

-

 

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock jumps out of bed with a frustrated sound, puts some clothes on, hurries down the stairs, and gets outside. It’s a mild summer night. He can feel his nerves sting, his whole body urging him forward. He can’t find a cab, so he runs part of the way, then hails one by a junction. 

He _needs_ to. 

Mycroft’s house is dark, but Sherlock has a key. He uses it, disarms the alarm, and as soon as he opens the door he can already smell a hint of it - baby, milk, a sweet scent, something powdery - it curls on the air. 

Sherlock walks in, taking care to look right into the camera in the hallway. 

And yes, by the time that he’s upstairs, Mycroft is standing in his bedroom doorway. He’s in his pyjamas, a dressing gown tied over them, and he is holding Violet. She’s wrapped in a blanket, so Sherlock can hear her more than see her, but she is very much awake. Her cries are piercing. 

“What on earth made you think that you needed to come over at this hour?” Mycroft needs to raise his voice to be heard over her. 

Sherlock reaches out. Mycroft, after a moment’s hesitation, hands her to him, and the second that Sherlock has her in his arms he can feel something lock in his throat. She’s already different than in the hospital. She is longer and heavier. Her face is red and pulled in her crying, she’s wriggling, waving her arms around, obviously very unhappy. Sherlock’s chest aches with the closeness. 

She doesn’t stop crying. 

“What exactly is it that you think you can do here?” Mycroft sounds annoyed. 

Sherlock glances at him, and sees the red-rimmed eyes, the careless way in which he is dressed. Mycroft is obviously at the end of what he can take. 

Sherlock inhales, and the scent alone is a wave of emotion, prickling his eyes, making all of him _want_. Sherlock moves towards him without meaning to. _Please let me._

Mycroft doesn’t move away, doesn’t move at all. Sherlock presses his nose to Mycroft’s neck. He fits his teeth into the mark there, and it’s an instant relief, as if something that was cutting him is suddenly healed, his whole body thrumming with this, this, _this_. 

Violet is still crying in his arms but she’s growing quieter. 

Sherlock lets go when he can bear to, and Mycroft turns, and looks at him. He has badly disguised emotion in his eyes. 

Sherlock instinctively rocks Violet back and forth. Her cries are sputtering out. He isn’t sure whether bonding has anything to do with it, but he can feel the happiness radiate from his skin. He feels like he can finally breathe, now. 

Mycroft sighs, looks at Violet, and says, “Well, you can put her to bed?” He holds himself carefully upright while walking, as if he’s in pain. He still is, probably. 

Sherlock follows Mycroft into his bedroom, conscious of the weight of Violet in his arms. 

There’s a crib next to Mycroft’s bed. Also a row of half-empty bottles on and around his bedside table, a used nappy next to a changing table, a tube of rash cream, two half-finished cups of tea, a book, and his reading glasses peeking from the unmade bed. For Mycroft, it’s an unmentionable mess. 

Sherlock can read the endless nights in it. Frustration. He looks at the crib, but he doesn’t want to put Violet down yet, or at all. He sits down on the bed, and holds her in his arms. 

Mycroft doesn’t insist. Nor does he start cleaning up, or scold him, or do anything. Instead he sits on the bed as well, with a wince of pain, and pinches his forehead. 

It’s quiet, now. Violet sniffs, but she’s quieted down. 

“Why did you do that, Sherlock?” Mycroft looks at him not with blame in his eyes, but it’s not far off. 

Sherlock unconsciously tightens his arms around Violet. _I had to._

Mycroft sees the movement, and then eyes him. 

Sherlock offers, “You need to sleep.” It’s obvious. 

Mycroft’s mouth thins. “Yes, there’s a lot that I need to do. But I don’t need you to come here and...” He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have.” 

Violet seems to be teetering on sleep. Sherlock looks at her. “I can take her downstairs.” 

Mycroft is not nearly as impressed with that as Sherlock thought he would be. “Yes, and do you even know what you’re doing? You haven’t taken care of a baby in your life.” 

_Neither have you._ Sherlock doesn’t say it. “If she does anything, I’ll wake you up.” _Or call John,_ he adds mentally. 

Mycroft sighs. And then gives in with a nod. 

He looks at Violet as Sherlock walks off, but he doesn’t stop them. Sherlock turns the light off on his way out as a silent command. _Go to sleep. I’ve never seen you look like that, not even that time with the elections and the prostitution scandal._

 _Not even when I was shot._

Sherlock walks down the stairs, suddenly very aware of the possibility of dropping her. Mycroft is right, he’s never tried to take care of a child. The movement of him walking wakes her again, and she starts murmuring. He hurries, because he doesn’t need Mycroft to hear, but then he’s downstairs. 

Sherlock finds himself standing in the middle of Mycroft’s kitchen, with nothing to do. Holding a baby. 

He wanders through the house. It’s dark. He walks to the library, sits down in one of the large, leatherback chairs Mycroft has, and holds her on his lap. She’s warm. A moist heat against his body. Sherlock doesn’t feel at ease holding her, not completely. Every faint movement she makes, he’s not sure what she’s going to do and why. And all the moments in between where she’s completely quiet, he wants to check that she’s breathing. 

She’s so small. It would be entirely too easy to harm her. She’s heavy to hold after a while, surprisingly so. His arm cramps, but Sherlock is afraid to shift her much. 

It’s still dark outside, but there’s a change in light. A lone bird calling. 

He should feel ashamed, really, running over here. Mycroft will be able to hold that over him, that he needed it that much. He’ll be cruel about it. It gives him power, it… Sherlock thinks of what Mycroft actually looks like. Maybe he will barely care. 

Violet sleeps for an hour or two, on and off, and then suddenly cries again. Sherlock didn’t do a thing, she just woke up. And now she’s wailing in his arms. 

Sherlock takes her to the downstairs bathroom. He knows how to do this. There’s another changing table, so he lies her down, opens the poppers on her sleepsuit, and checks her nappy. There is a rather bizarrely coloured mess in there. He takes it away, and then wipes her down with the wet tissues - front to back, never the other way around. He holds a new nappy under her in case she pees. 

It takes long minutes to wipe it all off, and even then he does a very clumsy job of putting her back in a new nappy, having to reposition the sticky bits several times before it fits her. Then he holds her. 

And sees the tube of rash cream. He lies her down again, opens the nappy, takes some of the cold, hard cream on his finger, and rubs it over her. He looks at his finger, and wipes that on the nappy while she wiggles and protests and cries, still. 

It was easier on YouTube. 

He needs to feed her at one point, too. Probably soon. She’s not crying too much yet, so Sherlock sits down again, and waits. At seven exactly, Mycroft comes downstairs. 

He looks at her, and goes to the kitchen to make her a bottle. When Sherlock follows him in, he sighs and says, “The nanny comes at eight.” 

Mycroft hands him the bottle when it’s done. Sherlock sits down again, and cautiously pushes it inside of Violet’s mouth. 

“Hold her head higher.”

He does. 

Mycroft eats breakfast while Sherlock feeds her. He watches her drink the bottle, and he feels proud, for the minute that she does it. And then she turns her head away and cries, so he tries to push it into her mouth again, but she refuses, and milk drips over her face, and streams down her chin. 

Eventually Mycroft takes over, his toast half-eaten on his plate. He already seems practiced at it, holding the bottle just right, stopping when she coughs. Sherlock observes him. He has never seen him do this, but at the same time it suits him. As if he was always going to have a child. 

Sherlock gets her back while Mycroft dresses, and at eight the nanny lets herself in. Sherlock scans her as well as he can - a woman, beta, in her early forties, she has a child of her own, career as a nanny, at least four previous placements - before he says, “Morning.”

She smiles, introduces herself, and asks how Violet’s doing. Sherlock gives her over reluctantly. 

Mycroft comes down, still looking altogether too pale, and says, “Well, on to work,” with a strained smile. He looks at Violet, and then looks at him. “Would you like a ride?” 

Sherlock doesn’t want to leave, but he knows it’s a dismissal. “I’ll walk.” 

He does, still feeling something wrong about this. It didn’t make anything better. Another week and he’ll want to bond again. It’s not a solution. 

 

-

 

When Sherlock arrives home, John looks up with a forkful of sausage and baked beans half-way to his mouth, breakfast, and says, “Oh, where did you get to, then?” 

Sherlock has to admit what he did. “Mycroft.” 

He _needed_ it, like some child. Or worse, an alpha. He needed to have it so he took it.

But John doesn’t laugh, instead he says, “Are they doing okay?” 

Sherlock thinks of the mess in the house. Of Mycroft’s expression when leaving for work. Of holding Violet throughout the night. It still doesn’t feel like it was enough. 

He doesn’t answer. 

“He’ll have to bring her here some time, Mrs. Hudson has been asking.”

John says it as a general remark, but Sherlock suddenly wants it, badly, to have her here. John, too. To have them all close. “Yes.” 

John picks up on the intensity, and he smiles. “All right, yeah, we’ll ask him.” 

 

-

 

Sherlock does feel better, for a while. He tries to put it out of his mind. He’s bonded to Mycroft, it’s fine. He can see her again soon. It’s not that big of a problem. 

There’s a case, maybe a four but just about interesting enough, and he’s relieved to find that he can focus on it, so he takes it. 

John goes along, and they end up criss-crossing between small lanes in Coventry, racing to catch a thief. And then hiding behind a hedge, still panting. Sherlock can hear by John’s breathing that he’s laughing. 

Sherlock puts a hand on John’s arm to signify to wait. John nods at him, flushed and happy, still smiling. 

Sherlock knows that he’ll never be able to give John what he needs. But in that moment, he wonders, what if he tried? What if they… He glances at John’s neck. He couldn’t bond, but he could kiss John there. Bite the skin right by John’s nape, and whisper that he’s his, too. 

John suddenly shifts. “He’s there, come on.” They jump over the hedge. Run to the house, John carrying his revolver in a sure grip. And Sherlock follows, and crosses in front of him to shield him in case something happens. John is his to protect. 

They end up having breakfast in the only greasy spoon they can find that’s open, John eating with his usual vigour, digging into his eggs. Sherlock didn’t order anything, but it’s nice to see John eat. He seems pretty content, Sherlock thinks. 

John realises that he’s staring, because he asks, “What?” 

John is a beta. And still, despite all of the misery of missing his bond, Sherlock feels bonded to John much more than to Mycroft. But he can’t be. What is there, then? Marriage? Is that what betas do when they feel like this? Sherlock hesitates. “Good case.” 

“I thought it was only a four?” 

Sherlock pulls a face. “Hm, four and a half, maybe.” 

John laughs.

 

 

 

 

 


	15. (Mycroft)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A very special letter](http://i.imgur.com/oUd7RuH.png) to accompany this chapter, made by Aion, thank you! :)

 

 

 _Violet._

Grand-mere died a few years after Sherlock was born, but Mycroft can remember the cliffs with perfect accuracy. The sea air. The smell of drying paint. He had wanted to give his child something of that memory, some goodness to go forward with. 

It seems like such a senseless thought now. Something overly sentimental, because that is what it was - he has been blinded by sentiment. Putting himself through this for the delusion that it will all be worth it. That it will fill some need, create some grandness that otherwise he would never have experienced. 

Mycroft, six days after giving birth, dresses in an early maternity suit, and goes to work. 

He gets some slow nods and looks, but no one speaks. He is glad of it. There is a box of cigars on his desk from the royal family. A line of presents from various contacts, ranging from top of the line vintage teddy bears, to a set of designer baby clothes. 

Anthea seems surprised to see him. “Sir!” She looks him over. “You did not need to come for the trade agreements, they are being taken care of.” 

Mycroft smiles. “Naturally not, I am simply checking in.”

She gives him a pile of files, and he takes them to a private room to catch up on reading them. 

He wakes up two hours later, still sitting upright in a chair, with a pile of files spread over his knees, a crick in his neck, and the thought that he needs to feed Violet. 

 

-

 

Mycroft had never assumed that it would be easy. 

He arranged for his usual cleaning service to come more often. For meals to be delivered straight to his kitchen. For a home nurse to come by daily for Violet’s and his own medical care. For a nanny, strictly vetted, to start right after Violet’s birth. 

But the truth is that he did not know to expect the sheer misery of it. 

He feels cramps, still, painful ones. He bleeds. The scar pulls his skin whenever he moves thoughtlessly. Standing up out of bed or a chair is difficult and dizzying. Getting dressed, washing himself, it all takes a monumental effort. 

He was not naive enough to expect that he would instantly be comfortable taking care of a newborn, either. He knew that there would be precious little sleep. That he would still be sore after the surgery. That he might not be a natural at this, parenting. But Violet cries day and night. Often she does not stop fully between one feeding and the next, and her cries cut through bone. 

Mycroft hasn’t slept much since she was born. Even with the nanny in the house during the day he has an unusually difficult time concentrating, feeling that faint thread of worry when he can hear Violet cry, but even more so when he cannot. 

He follows everything he has read and researched in advance, does everything that he was told in the hospital, every single detail, but most of it does little to comfort her. Violet seems desperately unhappy. 

Mycroft spends long hours at night reassuring her, or trying to. Holding her while he stares at the wall, or the ceiling, or the tiles of his kitchen. 

It was Mycroft who held Sherlock when he cried, too, he remembers. Vividly. Mycroft does not want to think of how many hours Sherlock cried just like this and there was no one to hold him. Because Mycroft was asleep, or because he did not realise... Sherlock is right, he did not raise him well, not as he should have. He did not know. 

But he knows now, so Mycroft holds his daughter, even when he would much rather put her down. 

When her weight in his arms feels empty, and numb. 

When her cries are so loud that they fray his nerves, so terrible that he would give everything for just a moment of silence. Just a breath, so he can go on. 

He holds her. 

 

-

 

John texts to ask how they are doing. Mycroft sends some general news back, a picture, once, aware that he should not go by. That it is over now. 

It is for the best, of course, Sherlock has been more than gracious keeping their bond for as long as he did. 

It does not matter. 

When Sherlock texts, Mycroft is awake in the middle of the night, of course he is, with Violet next to him, freshly changed and fed and burped and yet crying. He has a throbbing headache, and knows that it would not do a thing if he were to get up and put her in her crib, so he holds her and hopes that it might calm her. 

Sherlock calls, and Mycroft answers, simply to reassure him, or to reassure himself. He does not know at this point. It is good to hear Sherlock’s voice, and as short as their conversation is, he finds some comfort in it. 

Until Sherlock comes over. It is after four in the morning, and seeing him feels like something that his sleep-deprived brain can barely grasp. 

Sherlock reaches out to take Violet, and Mycroft hands her to him with much less fear and hesitation that he does to anyone else. Sherlock holds her as if he has missed her, which is ridiculous since he has only seen her once. But Mycroft can see the need right there on his face. 

When Sherlock gets close, Mycroft does not stop him. Selfishly, he does not argue against it. He does not do anything. It immediately feels right, bonding. It soothes his frayed nerves, the nagging pain in his head, the constant anxiety over Violet, the tension that he had been carrying on his shoulders, the aching sense of loneliness. He would give in to some emotion if he had the energy for it, but instead Mycroft simply stands there, and lets it take away the night, for just a moment. 

It does not fix anything. 

It is done, Mycroft sits down on his bed, and tries to see this clearly. Did he give Sherlock the impression that he could help, somehow? He did not mean to. 

Sherlock continues to hold Violet, and offers to take her so he can sleep. Mycroft should say no to that as well, but he knows that Sherlock will be careful with her, he trusts him that much. So he gives in, and immediately falls asleep. 

When his alarm goes, he feels a brief rush of panic - Violet is not in her crib. But it comes back quickly. Sherlock is downstairs, holding her as if she is an artefact, and needs to be held with the utmost of reverence. 

Mycroft would smile at it, if he was not thinking of work already, everything to do. 

How to keep it all managed. 

 

-

 

John has texted in the last weeks: “Do you want to come over to Baker Street with Violet some time? JW” “Sherlock can’t stop talking about her, just so you know. JW” “Mrs. Hudson would love to see the baby, she says that she’ll bake something for you if you want. JW” 

But Mycroft politely refuses. He simply does not have the time or the desire to dress Violet, and to take her in a car over to Baker Street to listen to that woman prattle on. 

But that Sunday, Violet is three weeks and a day old, John texts, “Maybe I could come over some time? Whenever works for you? JW” 

And Mycroft realises that he needs to give in eventually. John has always been friendly enough about his pregnancy, so what is one more performance. One more moment of appearing to be better at this than he is. “You can come by this afternoon if you wish. MH” 

John replies, “What’s the address? JW”

Mycroft had assumed that John would bring Sherlock along, but apparently not. Perhaps John wishes to talk in private. Most likely about Sherlock, and why Mycroft has allowed him to bond again. Mycroft doubts that John is angered by it, but it seems quite likely that he would want to make some sort of reassessment. John readily gave his permission the first time around, when it was to save his child. It is something different now that it is simply being done for pleasure.

Mycroft does not doubt that if Sherlock could bond to John, he would. The only reason he has even received this much is because John is a beta. 

He sends John the address, and prepares for his first baby visitor. Or the first intentional one at least, Sherlock’s mad dash to bond did not entirely count. Violet is asleep for now, so Mycroft dresses, tries to ignore his own lined face in the mirror, his loose, scarred stomach, and wears a brocade waistcoat. He is buttoning it up, looking in the mirror to make certain that it actually fits, when the doorbell rings. 

It is not a sound that he has heard often. Anyone who works for him receives a specific code so they can enter silently, but only at the time when they are expected. 

Sherlock is the only one with a key that overrides the system. 

Mycroft listens for Violet, relieved that while she might be awake, she is not outright wailing, and goes to open the door. 

John is standing there with an expectant expression, and a bit of a smile. 

“John.” 

He’s carrying a cake box. “Present from Mrs. Hudson.” 

Mycroft lets him in, and leads him to the library. John says, while they walk, “Sherlock told her your favourite, so, um, it’s a Battenberg. If that’s right?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. It is. He is surprised that Sherlock has bothered to both remember and mention it to her at all. So is it a reference to his weight? He does not look anything like he did before his pregnancy, he is aware, so Sherlock will enjoy that, probably. Fat Mycroft, can’t stop eating cakes. 

In spite of it, Mycroft makes certain to look back at John and appear grateful. “He is quite right, yes.” 

John is looking around curiously. “You know, it’s exactly what I expected your place would look like.” 

John does always like to comment on his offices as well. Likening him to a Bond villain, Mycroft remembers. He tries to see it through John’s eyes - the library, his pristine collections, book cases to the ceiling - and feels a brush of irritation. _Yes, this is nothing that you will appreciate._ “Is that so?” 

“Yeah, it’s...” John looks around. “Grand. Beautiful.”

Mycroft tilts his head. It rather is, naturally. It has taken him over a decade to collect the statues alone. “Please sit down.” 

John does, and puts the cake on the table. He is still looking around, at the fire place, the books, some specific titles, perhaps. Mycroft would tell him about his first editions if he was not certain that John is not at all interested in the topic. In fact, although Mycroft has spent many hours at Baker Street, it feels strangely intrusive to see John sitting here, in his home. “Can I offer you some tea?”

“Sure, yeah.” John at least seems more at ease than Mycroft feels. 

Mycroft leaves him alone to go to the kitchen, and hears from the hallway that Violet is definitely awake now. He can hear her faint prattling and complaining that means that he should have another couple of minutes before she will really cry. He takes out a tea set, turns on the kettle, and selects Earl Grey. Plates, and then Violet picks up in sound level and Mycroft abandons that to go get her. 

She’s crying when he enters the room. It is shrill, and cuts through his head. He takes her from her crib, she feels warm, and her face is sweaty. He zips her out of her sleeping bag, and holds her. Her hair has been growing a bit, it is still as fine as silk, but she has a faint curl by her neck now that springs up when it gets damp. 

Mycroft takes her over to the library. 

John looks up with a smile when he sees him with her. “Ah, there she is. Got a set of lungs on her, doesn’t she?” 

Mycroft was intending to put her down, but John seems pleased to see her, so after a moment’s hesitation, Mycroft says, “Would you like to hold her?”

John smiles. “Yeah, if you’re okay with that?”

He is. Somewhat. Mycroft hands her over to John, who takes her on his lap. 

Mycroft gets the cake, and takes it back to the kitchen. It is huge, who did that woman think she was feeding? Still, to be polite he cuts a small piece for himself, one for John, puts them on plates, and prepares the tea. He walks back to the library, holding it all on a tray, and then pauses in the doorway. 

John is looking down at Violet with something utterly pained in his eyes. 

He must have heard him, because he looks up fast, and swallows. Says, “She’s growing well.” 

John’s hand trembles, Mycroft sees, but he appears to control it. Was this more of a challenge for John that he thought it was? Is that why he came alone? Mycroft puts the tray down, pours the tea, and puts a plate near John. 

He sits down with a glance to Violet. She seems fine. John is holding her securely. Mycroft says, “Is there anything I can do for you, John?” 

John’s eyes stick to Violet for another moment, and then he looks up. “No, no, I just wanted to…” He doesn’t finish. 

Violet suddenly picks up with a cry. Mycroft is about to offer to take her - not that there is much that he can do, but he wants to spare John the sensation of having to hold a crying baby - when John lifts her, supports her head, and lowers her against his shoulder while patting her back. 

John goes on as if there is no emotion radiating from his body, as if he is not comforting her as if he knows how. “Sherlock wants to see her more often, I think.”

Mycroft is not entirely surprised, not after Sherlock’s behaviour toward her last time.

“He’s too much of a prat to admit it, of course, but…” John smiles, the way he often does when he talks about Sherlock. “He misses her.” 

Mycroft is again struck by the way John is holding Violet. He is lightly tapping her on the back, and she has lowered her head on his shoulder. If she would have eaten in the last hour Mycroft would need to warn John about the possibility of a burp containing milk, he himself has several suits at the dry cleaners for that very reason, but John seems to know when it is enough, and he lowers her back into the crook of his arm. 

Mycroft assumes that John deals with children often in his job as a GP. It is a learned behaviour, is it not? 

John glances up. “So maybe you can let him babysit some time?” 

Mycroft nods. Yes, he had already considered it. 

“And you’re bonding again then?”

Mycroft was not prepared for the question as such. He takes his tea cup, has a sip, and controls the shame that comes along with having to admit this to John. He carefully states, “I am aware that it is not a permanent solution.” Sooner or later they will have to break this bond. 

“No, it’s...” John shakes his head. “Good. For him. He really missed it, I think.” 

John keeps Violet in one arm, and takes his cup of tea with the other. It draws Mycroft’s eye to Violet. It must be why Sherlock so wished to see her, as well. It must feel as if she is his. Mycroft never intended for that to be the case. It is unfair to Sherlock, who never even mentioned wanting children, or even spared it a moment’s thought, Mycroft is sure. 

It is unfair to John as well, who deserves Sherlock’s time and affection much more than Mycroft does. 

John puts his tea down, and Violet moves in his arm. She is not sleeping, but she seems content there. John looks down at her. “So how is she doing? You getting any sleep?” 

Mycroft speaks, haltingly, “Not as much as I would like.” How much does one admit?

John winces. “Yeah, that’s going to be a while. It’s always hard in the beginning, isn’t it?” 

John seems to be familiar with the concept. Mycroft wonders again at how many young parents John sees in his capacity as a GP. Does he have this conversation often? Does it involve tears, and people saying that they cannot stand it anymore? He says, “I have help, I manage.”

It sounds rather stern, perhaps, because John looks him over with a slight frown. He then visibly decides not to answer, glances back down at Violet, smiles, and says, “She’s got your nose, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, one would hope not!” Mycroft says it before he has thought it through. 

John looks up, and grins, knowing that he has succeeded in annoying him. “You don’t want her to?”

There is no end to the amount of taunts that Sherlock has centred around Mycroft’s nose in their youth. Granted, less in the last few years, but only because he has had other things to think about. “…I am not overly fond of the idea, no.” 

John smiles at his reaction. “It suits you.” He looks down. “It’ll suit her as well, she’s a Holmes, she’ll pull it off.” 

Mycroft is not entirely confident in that. 

John ends up staying over an hour more, and by the time that he is gone, Mycroft feels somewhat lighter. He knows that John tried to cheer him, in his own way. Mycroft feeds Violet, and tries to get through the evening. 

And, after some deliberation, calls Sherlock. 

Mycroft had assumed that he would have to try more than once, and then text, but Sherlock answers on the third ring. “Yes?” 

“Do you have a case on?” 

A slight hesitation. “No.”

Ah, the truth. Well then. “I have a meeting tomorrow evening that is expected to run late.” Mycroft does in fact have a meeting, but he could easily skip it, and there is no reason why he should work late. “Is there any chance that you and John could you take Violet for an hour or two?”

Sherlock will know that he is lying. Mycroft half-expects him to call him out on it. _Simply say so if you want me to take your child, why do you think I would want to, anyway._

But Sherlock says, after a breath, “I... yes.” 

Mycroft is not entirely certain why he is doing this. Except that he suspects that John was right and that Sherlock wants to see her. “The nanny can drop her off at six, and I will pick her up at eight. But only if you are not too busy, of course.” _This is not a favour to me, Sherlock._

“Yes, that’s fine.” Sherlock sounds almost eager. 

“All right.” Mycroft hangs up. And then eyes Violet. 

Sherlock might feel differently after having her over for some hours.

 

 

 

 

 


	16. (John)

 

 

John comes home from work, and opens the door to a Sherlock who quickly looks up with a giant smile. “John!” He has Violet lying down on a pillow on the sofa, kicking her arms and legs at him. 

Ah. “Babysitting, are you?” It worked, then, John’s glad. 

There’s a changing bag on the table, a car seat, a baby carrier, and a hand-written list of what to do on top of it. John wonders whether it was the nanny or Mycroft, but his money is on Mycroft, especially as he sees the loops in the handwriting and the fact that it’s on stationery.

“Mycroft working?”

“Hm.” Sherlock nods, but his eyes are glued to Violet. 

John takes his coat off, and says, “You’ll have to show her to Mrs. Hudson, you know, she won’t forgive you if you don’t.” 

Yes, fine.” Sherlock lifts the baby up under her arms, and John has ‘Support her head!’ on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t say it. No, Sherlock can learn this on his own. Besides, it’s not like John’s the expert. 

He does follow Sherlock down the stairs, though. 

Sherlock knocks on the door, and Mrs. Hudson smiles and takes Violet and makes high-pitched sounds at her, just as John would have expected. But Sherlock stays close by and then takes her back within five minutes, which he finds hilarious. 

Judging by her indulgent smile, so does Mrs. Hudson, and they share an amused look. Sherlock’s actually into this. 

The rest of the time is spent with Sherlock simply holding her, and then a short moment of panic when she starts to make a rather expressive poo face. John hasn’t changed a nappy in a while but he does have a fair amount of young patients, so he at least knows the basics. Sherlock seems properly impressed with his technique, anyhow. 

John meets Mycroft at the door when he comes to get her, and says, “I think you just made his week.” 

Mycroft seems a bit surprised by it, but he nods thoughtfully. 

 

-

 

John pretty much assumed that it would be a one-off, having Violet at Baker Street. But it’s not.

He should have seen it coming, probably. Sherlock never does anything half-way. 

Sherlock makes some sort of deal with the nanny, and in a matter of days the flat becomes even more of a mess. Nappies on the kitchen table. Baby bottles by the kettle. Spilled milk powder on the floor. There’s a blanket that John doesn’t recognise on the sofa, and Mrs. Hudson whispers to him, “He’s ever so good with that baby, isn’t he?” 

And he is. Sherlock writes down when she eats, and how much. When he changes her, when she sleeps, when she cries, it all goes into a notebook. It’s both exactly how John thought Sherlock would be - if he ever would have thought Sherlock would go through the effort of learning what a baby needs - and utterly bizarre to see Sherlock care that much. 

On John’s days off, where they would have had a case before, or at least done something at all, they now have Violet. 

John doesn’t mind, really. 

Or he doesn’t say anything, anyway. 

He even takes her every once in a while, when Sherlock’s in the shower, or needs a break. John goes out for take-away so they can eat with the baby on Sherlock’s lap. John changes her, and rocks her. But it’s a bit, well, much. 

It’s hard to focus on anything else when the baby’s around. To relax, when Violet’s crying while Sherlock holds her with a tense expression, looking for all the world as if he can’t stand not doing anything about it. 

Usually John, when he can’t stand it anymore either, takes her himself and tries to get her to calm down. Not that he’s any better at it than Sherlock is, but he manages to get her to fall asleep exactly once, and after that Sherlock seems to think that he knows the solution to anything baby-related. Which means he gets texts at work along the lines of “Third nappy of the day like this, normal? SH” with a picture attachment. 

Sometimes, John laughs. 

Most of the time he doesn’t. It’s hard to get too annoyed with Sherlock when he’s doing this so genuinely, but it’s not exactly fun either. John hints that maybe they should take a case soon and deal with something else for a while, but Sherlock says, “We can’t, we have Violet from two.” 

We. 

John comes home to see Sherlock and Mycroft both on the sofa, not even bonding, just discussing the right time for Violet to get vaccinated, and he feels for a second as if he’s walked in on something that he’s got no part of, anymore. 

Until Sherlock looks at him and smiles, until Mycroft nods at him, but still, the feeling’s there. It’s starting to feel like a family of some sort. And it’s not like John begrudges either of them for having finally found something that makes them connect, it’s only that he’s not really sure on how much of a part he has in it – raising Sherlock’s niece. What is he doing, really? 

 

-

 

For the next two months, John sees a lot more of that baby than he ever intended. 

John would ask Mycroft to put a stop to it, except that he can’t really make himself say it. He can see how exhausted Mycroft is, and how much Sherlock actually wants to have her over. Mycroft does mention it as well, “Sherlock, I do pay the nanny quite handsomely, please stop taking away her work, it’s her job and she is entirely qualified, I assure you.” 

But curiously, he doesn’t say much more. 

So John has to either get used to the constant crying, or be an even bigger arse than he already is. And he doesn’t hate it, most of the time. She smiles, now. Besides a rather prominent nose, Violet doesn’t really look much like Mycroft, but there’s something familiar about her anyway. 

Some days John thinks that she’s going to end up being the closest thing, probably. The closest thing to having had one of his own. 

And other days he thinks it’s ridiculous that Sherlock is wasting that brain of his on babysitting instead of being out there and solving murders and mysteries, being brilliant. It would be one thing if there was no one else to take the baby, but Mycroft’s right, his nanny seems nice enough, and there’s really no reason why Sherlock needs to be so involved. 

At least Sherlock gives her back at the end of the day, which tends to be a relief. An oasis of quiet, because god, does she ever cry. 

Mycroft’s looking pale and drained these days, too. John doesn’t even want to know what the nights are like. 

But still, John helps out. He goes to work one day with drool on his shoulder. Poo still under his fingernails. And there’s something ironic about it - he never was going to have this, a baby, and he’d just about accepted that. 

But more than that, Sherlock was never, ever going to be like this. John never in a million years would have imagined Sherlock happily rocking a baby to sleep, just, no. 

And now it’s happening every single day.

They don’t have a crib, so Sherlock takes her to his bed for naps, only he doesn’t trust leaving her alone, so he curls up next to her, and lays a hand on her stomach, just in case she moves. John watches that, and feels a pang of... something. 

Sherlock plays his violin to put her to sleep, and John sees the faint smile on Sherlock’s lips while he plays, and wonders what he’s feeling when he does that. Whether Sherlock loves her. 

John holds Violet, too, while he reads a book, or when he is on the computer. He’s got more patience with her than he thought he’d have, but that’s easy when he has Sherlock looking at him as if he’s hung the moon for him instead of just made a bottle. Or handed him a dummy, or looked through the baby book to find the recommended time between feedings. 

Part of John wonders - if Mary’s baby would have been his, if Mary had left her behind, and John would have come home to Baker Street with a newborn.... John never would have brought the baby here, he never would have guessed that Sherlock would even want it around. But if he had, would it have been like this? 

John hates the thought. 

It only makes it harder, watching Sherlock adore Violet. 

Because John _thought_ that he knew who Sherlock was, when he moved back in. He thought that he finally had it all figured out, that he knew what he was coming back to: the cases, the adventures - the frustration, yeah, but John didn’t expect anything more. It was going to be enough to be friends with Sherlock, because that’s all Sherlock could give. 

But he was wrong. About all of it, because none of what John pictured involved a baby. Or Mycroft, or bonding, or any of this shit. 

Mycroft comes to pick Violet up, and Sherlock nuzzles Mycroft’s neck, a quick, dutiful gesture, but John feels a tug of jealousy. Sherlock tells him that he took Violet to the park, and John thinks, _can do that but can’t take a case, can you?_ Sherlock picks up formula at the shop, and John feels indignant, actually. So now he can do the shopping after all? 

It feels unreal. As if John wants to shake Sherlock and tell him to go to his mind palace, or throw a sulk, or find a fucking case. Not be this person that plays lullabies and carefully touches little feet and wipes Violet’s face with a cloth whenever she spits up. 

It’s touching. It’s weird, and John doesn’t know what to do with it, because if Sherlock can care like that...

No. He can’t think it. 

But Sherlock’s still close. Sherlock touches his arm, absent-mindedly, when John’s in the way. Sherlock smiles at him. Sherlock mumbles a low, “Thank you” every time John helps with the baby. 

And John can’t stop himself from wanting more every single day. 

 

-

 

They’re both in the bathroom, in front of the sink. Violet had an explosive accident and desperately needed a wash, but John’s been doing all the actual bathing because Sherlock’s a bit unsure with a slippery baby in his hands. The air’s humid, John’s wet to his elbows, and Violet’s angrily trampling her legs, splashing them both, when Sherlock looks at him and asks, “Are you happy, John?”

John says, on automatic pilot, “Sure.” He takes a cup and rinses Violet’s hair. She pulls a face, and then tries a sharp wail that echoes in the small bathroom. John winces. 

John takes her out of the water, hands her to Sherlock to wrap in a towel, and she cries even harder as he manoeuvres her into a new nappy. 

It’s definitely been worse, hasn’t it? Mourning Sherlock for years and then Mary leaving, it’s been hell, so this is fine. Except... Well. _Don’t wish for what you can’t get._

John cleans the bathroom, dries his arms, and goes to the living room. 

Sherlock put Violet in a bouncy chair that Mrs. Hudson got from somewhere and looks as if it’s bounced at least a couple of generations of babies before. She’s working up to an ear-splitting screech - hungry, John can tell from the sound of her crying. 

Sherlock is in the kitchen, making her bottle, but he looks up as John walks in. And it’s stupid, how often it’s right there, on John’s mind. _I’d be happier if you kissed me._ Sherlock must be able to read it constantly. _Crawl into my bed, why don’t you?_ It’s probably a small miracle that Sherlock can stand to have him around, John thinks. 

Then again, Sherlock’s always been the type that likes to be adored. It’s probably good for his ego. 

John watches Sherlock make the bottle, and test the heat by spilling a few drops on his wrist. Then he takes Violet, sits down, and starts feeding her. Violet’s sucking sounds layer over the suddenly blissfully quiet kitchen, and John asks, “Are you, then? Happy?” 

Sherlock looks at him, breathes in, and for a moment his eyes are painful to look at, something there that’s not just overflowing but endless, pushing to be seen. John can feel a stab of tension in his stomach. _What, oh god, what?_ But then Sherlock looks back down at Violet, and smiles. His eyes seem gentler, softer. “Yes.”

John turns away. 

He doesn’t know why he can feel disappointment drag him down like a rock. 

 

-

 

Sherlock takes Violet to his room to put her to sleep. 

He leaves the door half-open, and John can hear the low rumble of Sherlock’s voice as he talks her to sleep. 

He usually tells her stories. 

Nothing as common as fairy tales, John’s not sure that Sherlock knows any, actually. No, he tells her about cases. John’s heard his name in there a couple of times. It’s often something like ‘and then John wrote it down,’ or ‘and then John deduced it wrong,’ but he’s pretty chuffed anyway to hear Sherlock mentioning him. 

After a while, John walks to the door, careful not to make too much noise, but at the same time aware that Sherlock will know that he’s there anyway. 

He can’t hear Violet, she’s probably asleep, but he can hear Sherlock say, “…then Angelo rang the doorbell, and he had John’s cane.” 

John can feel a rush of anger hearing that. Does Sherlock _have_ to tell her that? That night, that, all of it... it hurts to think of it. 

Still, John opens the door, and steps in. Sherlock is sitting on the bed next to Violet. He looks at him, and John can feel it settle in his throat. He wants him. John wants him. And it’s impossible. It’s not going to work, not going to happen, John always knew that. Nothing’s changed now. 

John sits down on the bed, too, careful not to startle Violet. 

He looks at Sherlock again. And he just... John can feel his heart beat in his throat enough that he’s nearly nauseous. _What are you doing, Watson?_ John moves closer, until he can only see a pale flash of Sherlock’s face. 

John kisses him. 

Or he tries to - he breathes against Sherlock’s lips with a searing tension in his chest, closes the gap, and presses his lips to Sherlock’s. John knows it’s a crap idea as he’s doing it. Sherlock doesn’t respond, and John moves back, already regretting it. 

It lies between them, a thing that happened. 

Bizarrely, John thinks of Cluedo. In the half-dark, in Sherlock’s bedroom, with the baby next to them. The solution to the puzzle. 

Sherlock looks at him with a strange expression, and then says, as if he’s checking, “You kissed me.”

John feels a breathless hilarity now, “I did, yeah.” Five years in the making and that’s all it was. One dry, little kiss. It’s fucking absurd. “Um. Sorry?”

Sherlock swallows. He doesn’t seem sure of what to say. Neither is John, but that’s fine. There’s not going to be a follow-up, is there? No race upstairs that ends with clothes strewn over the bed, or a quick fuck on the floor. No, this is it. John Watson kissed Sherlock Holmes, and the world didn’t end. No fireworks, or meant to be. Just dry lips, and that was it. 

In all, it’s the least successful kiss John’s ever had, probably. 

But still there’s something to it. John showed his hand, and it’s Sherlock who didn’t respond. There’s something freeing in knowing for sure. It’s a relief, really. He should be happy, now he knows once and for all. 

John takes a breath and gets up, because he can’t keep on looking at Sherlock like this. But he doesn’t go far, just to the living room, his chair. He takes a book, and starts reading. 

Sherlock follows a bit later, and sits down as well. 

John can feel the tension slowly relax between them. 

It was stupid, to do that. 

It’s not like he didn’t know.

 

 

 

 

 


	17. (Sherlock)

 

 

John kissed him. 

Sherlock can feel that thought as a constant thrumming in the back of his mind. John _kissed_ him. 

Sherlock had been thinking about bonding for months, trying to find a way to tell John, _I would chose you. I would do this with you, for you. I wish we could._ And then John did that. 

Sherlock has been kissed before. He has instigated it himself a couple of times, but usually for a specific reason. To impress. To misguide. People are easily won that way. It has never felt good. Sherlock actively despises it when there is tongue involved, when it makes the other pant and drool and behave irrationally. But John didn’t do any of that. Sherlock expected that he might, that John would move on top of him and kiss him more - he was going to let him. 

But John simply moved away. 

John didn’t go too far, either. Just to the living room, where Sherlock could be as well, where he could see him, and hear him breathe. John was reading, John was John and everything that entails, trust, goodness, the best man he has ever known. 

The thought that John could do that is impossible. Kiss him. It’s what Sherlock never thought might happen, or if it did, that he would feel John’s hands scrabble on his clothes, pulling them off. That it would be nothing but hard, too close flesh and mouths and John looking away in the morning. Sherlock had been ready to do that, once. To give that to John, if he asked for it. 

But he didn’t. 

Sherlock eyes John, and thinks of what to say. _What do I do? What do you want? You can touch me again if you need to. I’m not sure that I’ll be any good, John._ But everything he can think of seems less than what has already happened. 

So he doesn’t speak. 

 

-

 

Nothing else happens after that. 

John seems fine. 

Sherlock doesn’t want to be kissed again, but John needs sex, and if Sherlock can give it to John, it might be the answer to a lot of things. John will be much less likely to leave, then. 

Except if the sex is not good enough, which it probably won’t be. But Sherlock could try. Does he need to? Should he? Will it make John like him less if he knows how little he can give like that, or could it be enough? Sherlock knows that he’ll never do anything more than disappoint John, in the end. So is it better to find out now? 

It’s easier to take care of Violet, so Sherlock focuses on that. 

Mycroft’s nanny has a seven year old son and she’s perfectly happy dropping Violet off in time so that she can go get him from school. What’s stranger is that Mycroft has been surprisingly lenient about it. Mycroft knows exactly when she’s where, but he doesn’t say outright that Sherlock can’t take her. He never stops him. 

Sherlock does feel tired after having Violet for a while, but it never keeps him from wanting to see her the next day, too. She’s fascinating. It happens slowly enough that he can’t tell, but she is growing daily. Sherlock never spent much time with children before, so he knows that he can’t compare, but surely she is one of the brighter ones. He is quite sure that she is starting to recognise him. 

But _John kissed him_. 

So Sherlock does what he needs to do, and for the first time in two months says that he can’t take Violet, and instead finds a case. 

Sherlock calls John, and he comes, and soon they’re trying to get to the other side of London. There’s a brief scare when they find a dead body, gunned down, and Sherlock can feel it press on his chest. The scars on his back ache with the ice cold chill that there could be a shooter, anywhere, at any time. Sherlock wants to shield John and take him home and never do this again. But he pushes through it. 

He does call Lestrade for back-up much sooner than he would have before, and John looks surprised at that. 

When they break into the house of the gunman, Sherlock goes first. He throws himself at the gun with a rapidly beating heart, shaking so much afterwards that he can barely conceal it, but he has to. 

Sherlock knows he needs to do this, for John. He needs to do everything he can to keep him. 

 

-

 

When John comes home from work the next day, he obviously has a headache. 

Violet has been screaming all afternoon. Sherlock doesn’t know why, but he can’t quiet her. He rocks her, tries the dummy, to swaddle her, all of it, but she’s just red and angry and annoyed and he can’t shush her.

And John gets more and more irritated, until he snaps, “Can’t you keep her quiet!” 

Sherlock doesn’t say a word, takes his coat, and a blanket, puts Violet in the baby carrier, and he walks out. 

It’s for John. John needs quiet, so he’ll give it to him. 

Sherlock walks fast, and holds Violet against his chest. He lets the road move under his legs, and faces the wind. He walks, and walks. 

He is aware that he has been getting looks, hurrying with a child strapped to him, from men and women alike. A bonded alpha, carrying a baby. It registers in their faces, they assume that she’s his, and then they look at him differently. Sherlock knows that she is not, that it is not what people think, but still he likes the idea more than who he was before. Unbonded alpha, dangerous, willing, is very different from this. 

Sherlock walks over the Jubilee Bridge, and he makes it to the South Bank before he sits down on a bench. Violet is awake, but she has been mostly quiet since he left the flat. She likes being carried, something about the up and down motion when he walks. 

He checks Violet’s hands and feet, but she is not cold. He adjusts the blanket around her, and sits there, looking at the water. The lights. 

When John walks up to them ten minutes later, fast, out of breath, his shoulders squared against the wind, Sherlock is surprised. Why did John follow him? Is there something wrong? 

John stops in front of him, looks at him with eyes full of guilt, and says, “Sherlock, I’m sorry, all right!”

Sherlock frowns. “Why?” 

“All of it! The...” John doesn’t even want to say it, it’s obvious, he lowers his voice, “Yelling at you. Violet.” 

Sherlock tries, “It’s fine.” It doesn’t matter.

John sits down next to him, but he still seems restless. 

They look over the water. Violet cries softly, and then stops as Sherlock pats her back. They’ll have to get her back soon. 

John sighs. “I didn’t know that we were going to end up _raising a kid_ , okay?”

He is going to leave. John is going to leave. Sherlock always knew that he would, so it shouldn’t be a surprise. This is all he had of John, not even a year. Still, it was a lot. He was happy, or very close to it, to have this. Sherlock says, already knowing that it won’t be enough, “We can take more cases.” 

“Lestrade has been begging me.” John looks at him. “Do you even want to?”

 _I’ll do it for you, John. I’ll get through it._ Sherlock tries to sound put-upon. “Of course.” 

John glances at Violet. “I never even knew you wanted any. Kids.” John’s voice sounds raw. “And now you’re...” His mouth pulls. “Super-dad.” 

No, Sherlock did not want a baby. He never thought about having one. He says, dully, “You wanted to.” 

Violet makes a sound, and John looks down at her. Then says, his voice oddly tense, “Sherlock, what do you want?” 

Sherlock can answer that immediately - for John to stay, forever. For none of this to ever go away. But it’s not going to be enough for John. 

Sherlock knows that he’ll never be able to fake everything for John, but he needs to try. He will give John all of himself, for as long as he can keep him. 

Sherlock considers the lights, the busy walkway by the water. Surely this is somewhat romantic. He looks at John, and then leans in, careful with Violet between them. He tries to kiss him. John is further away than he thought, and Sherlock’s lips land too hard, next to John’s mouth.

John half-laughs, “What?” John touches his cheek, and that feels much better than the kissing does, so Sherlock closes his eyes, and feels only that, the touch of John’s hand. John asks, “What are you doing?” He sounds close by, and hushed. 

Sherlock opens his eyes, and tries to be _grand_. To be everything John wants. He says, “Keep up, John, I’m kissing you back.” 

Sherlock presses his mouth to John’s. Licks his lips, until John groans and pulls him in. And it does not matter that it feels too close and prickly wet, that it’s something he needs to push himself to get through. 

He has to.

 

 

 

 

 


	18. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft gets used to life as a parent, slowly. 

He navigates the days, one after the other, and it does not get easier as much as it becomes routine. 

His body seems entirely unfamiliar still, but he feels very little of it now most of the pain is gone. He feels as if he is outside of himself. His stomach is loose skin. The scar of his caesarean is healing into a straight, red line. His stretch marks are slowly fading. 

Mycroft is aware that he should watch his food intake to get rid of the pregnancy weight that is left, but he is often too tired or busy to eat a full meal anyway, especially at home. It is impossible to sit down for any length of time with work or something to read or eat or enjoy in peace and quiet. His daughter is a constant distraction. Her well-being should be his priority, so he gets up and always pays attention to her needs first. 

It feels somewhat hollow, at times. As if he is going through the motions of doing this. Mycroft does it all as perfectly as if he is being watched even when he is alone in the house. The thought is on his mind often, that if there would be a camera recording his every move, no one would be able to fault him, or think of him as anything less than an attentive parent. 

But he finds it hard to talk to Violet the way Sherlock does. To connect to her in any meaningful way. 

Mycroft offers Violet all the physical contact needed because he is aware of how essential it is for her development, but he himself does not always find it rewarding as much as a duty to hold her. 

That is why he allows Sherlock to take her so often. Oh, Sherlock does not realise it himself, but it is entirely captivating to watch how he interacts with Violet. He talks to her and holds her close in a way that is quite obviously so because he cannot think of anything else he would rather do. 

Mycroft often walks into 221b to see Sherlock reading while holding her, or on his laptop, or playing violin at her, occasionally even napping with her in his bed. Sherlock is always focused on Violet mainly, and Mycroft finds that to be admirable. He does not manage that intensity himself when he takes care of her. Mycroft’s mind is often far away, distracted by work, by how to solve problems, how to plan the day. 

Sherlock, of course, has the luxury of more time to simply be with her, but even when Mycroft has the time, he is not always certain what to do with her. Mycroft has entire Sundays where it is just Violet and himself in his large house, and the truth is that those days drag. He tries to do what he did before - read, work - but it is interrupted so often that after a while he chooses not to even start, and simply waits for Violet’s next need to come along. 

It is entirely tiring as well. 

She does sleep a bit more now, but she is still awake much more often than the books seem to suggest is normal. Of course, his daughter being cursed with an active mind is something that Mycroft finds easy to believe, but he had thought that it would take at least a couple more years before that would be an issue. 

She is healthy in all other aspects, in the higher percentile for height and weight, and there is nothing to worry about, but of course he does. Even Sherlock does, arguing about when to vaccinate her and what to feed her and how, as if he has a say in it at all. Sometimes Mycroft is glad of being able to discuss some of these things with someone else, but often it results in silly little arguments that he has no desire to indulge. Sherlock is an adult now, it is only that he seems to momentarily forget that and want nothing but to be right, even when it is about Violet. 

John seems to be a good influence as always. When Mycroft sees John interact with Violet, he is always calm and collected, obviously capable. But he does not seem to take her often simply because he wishes to be with her. That is all Sherlock. 

Mycroft wonders if perhaps it is all getting to be a bit too much of a good thing for John. He is, as ever, not certain whether he should discuss this with Sherlock or stay out of it. He is weary of the thought that what his pregnancy and Violet’s birth changed between Sherlock and himself, might have done something to John and Sherlock as well. Mycroft never intended to be the cause of any disruption between them. 

In the end, he decides not to interfere. It is not his place. 

 

-

 

And then the next week Sherlock brings it up himself. 

Sherlock is alone when Mycroft comes by to pick Violet up. It often is a very short visit, some conversation about how she is doing, nothing more, but today Sherlock looks drawn. He is sitting in John’s armchair, his knees tucked under his chin. Violet is on her playmat on the floor, working on how to hold her head up, at which she succeeds at times, and then fails with a cry. 

Mycroft would be bothered by Sherlock letting her that close to the floor, if he did not know that Mrs. Hudson has been cleaning daily, and he himself provided the mat after seeing the frankly repulsive second hand things they had been allowing near Violet in the flat. And she can’t have been on there for more than a couple of minutes, seeing as how she has not started grunting in irritation yet. 

Sherlock says, slowly, “Don’t fret. She has been there for seven minutes, you said fifteen twice a day.” 

Yes, he did. Mycroft eyes Sherlock. And then dares to ask the question, “Are you quite all right?” 

Sherlock looks at him, and says, out of nowhere, and as if it is an entirely new concept to him, “You’ve had sex.” 

Mycroft blinks. And then takes a seat on the sofa, partly out of astonishment that Sherlock even raised the topic, and partly because he can deduce what this is about. John, plainly. After a moment, Mycroft says, awkwardly, “...And why are we mentioning this?” 

Violet raises her head, looks at him, and smiles a brief open-mouthed thing before her head falls down with a frankly alarming thump, but she raises it again right after. 

Sherlock eyes him, obviously uncertain, so Mycroft decides to humour him. “John wants more from your relationship, I take it?” 

If Sherlock is impressed by his insight, he does not show it. 

“People do, Sherlock.” That is what Mycroft has learned. There is always something more that needs to be given. If it is not physical, then it is some new sign or token of affection, until it is not enough to simply deduce what is expected and provide it for them. Until it becomes about the look in his eyes, or the way he does not seem to care, and then it is over. 

Sherlock says, grimly, “I’m not sure I can do it.” 

Mycroft feels some surprise. If there is anything that Sherlock is entirely more at ease with than Mycroft himself, it is emotion. Surely John must know that Sherlock loves him, it is utterly obvious in every action Sherlock takes, in every glance he throws at him when they are together. 

“Sex.” Sherlock seems annoyed by the thought itself. 

Oh. Mycroft considers it. “You don’t believe you would enjoy it?” 

Sherlock eyes him with clear distaste. “No.” 

Mycroft thinks quickly. It is not unmanageable, he believes. Not with John, who is beyond attached to Sherlock. “John has lived with you for years without it so far, what makes you think that you would need to have _relations_ now?” 

“He wants to.” Sherlock’s arms tighten around his knees. 

Mycroft privately thinks that John, who makes tea and sits in that chair and reads the newspaper, is not drawn to Sherlock solely because of some unfulfilled sexual desire. If he was, he would have left years ago. 

Violet’s managed to roll onto her side, now, and grab a toy that she’s drooling on. Mycroft looks at her, and considers that she will have a much more varied childhood if Sherlock, and by extension, John, are a part of it. More than that, Mycroft wants it for her. He had never thought about it in such detail prior to being pregnant, but now that she is here, he does wish this for her. Family. 

And if John truly wants something more… Mycroft considers Sherlock, “Surely there are some things you can do for him, if needed?” 

Sherlock frowns. 

If Sherlock does not understand what Mycroft means by that, then he has no desire to make this any clearer. _Dear lord._ Mycroft sighs. He did know Sherlock to be rather naive, but he finds it to be somewhat unbelievable that he would be this immature. Still, Mycroft tries to be practical. John seems like the type who would be more than willing to teach. “You could ask John for his guidance as to what to do.” 

Sherlock looks at him as if the thought alone is dreadful. 

Luckily, Violet chooses that moment to start crying. A blubbering, angry cry that quickly turns violent if he doesn’t take her, so Mycroft gets up, and plucks her from the floor. He looks back at Sherlock, who seems miserable. 

Mycroft gathers Violet’s things, and says, feeling rather uncomfortable, “I do believe that John will be more understanding than you give him credit for.” 

Mycroft leaves with a nod, and a somewhat odd feeling. He did realise that bonding had brought him closer to Sherlock, but he is not entirely convinced that he wants to have conversations like these. It feels altogether too personal.

 

-

 

Mycroft takes Violet home, and faces yet another long night of trying to calm her enough to sleep. It works for some hours, and then he is awake again at five in the morning, holding Violet in the kitchen while he drinks a cup of tea. 

Before Mycroft was pregnant, he would occasionally notice a parent with their child, and observe them. 

On the side of the road, in a park, from the window of a restaurant. They would always seem rather at ease. As if it was the most normal thing, to them, to push their child in a stroller, to hold its hand, to navigate London with that small life attached to them. 

Mycroft could easily read the fatigue on them. The occasional irritation, the fact that they were not in any way happier than the other people around them, and could conclude that parenthood was not some state to be desired. But it was that comfort that intrigued him. That entirely too easy sensation of being alive as a parent. 

And now that he has a child, he does not know how they would go through their day not entirely crushed by the weight of responsibility for another’s mind. Not shocked to the depth of their core at the fact that they have another, so very fragile, life in their arms. Or frightened to the point of terror by everything that might happen to it. 

Of course, most simply do not see the world as Mycroft does, or are even intellectually capable of it, he is aware. Perhaps they simply do not understand, or choose not to, what powers lie behind their mundane existences. Perhaps their children are nothing but the extension of themselves, living in false security, in a false ideology of importance. 

But still, there is something there that he both envies, and is aware that he will never have. Mycroft will never be entirely comfortable with this role, he thinks now. Because he knows what he is capable of out of love. He looks at Violet, and he knows that he would do anything. Not coldly, not calculated, Mycroft would tear himself to pieces for her. He is doing so, daily. 

That is what it feels like to be a parent to him. 

And maybe that sensation is why his colleagues thought that it would make him vulnerable. It has, this painful, aching sense of having to protect her in this world of unseen terror. But Mycroft also knows that what he would do for her is endless. He already did for Sherlock, but that sense grew along with Sherlock and Mycroft himself, as naturally as growing up did. In contrast, there is nothing slow about this. It is deep and cruel and true. 

It does not come naturally to him, taking care of Violet. Mycroft finds it hard every day. But he will never, ever not feel this for her. She is his. 

…And so is Sherlock. Mycroft sighs, and considers Sherlock’s words.

Then takes his phone, and tries to rearrange his schedule so that he will have some time during the day. 

He will speak to John.

 

 

 

 

 


	19. (John)

 

 

John is not all that sure what to think. 

Sherlock kissed him, on the South Bank. The kiss itself was awkward, but John was too surprised to care. Once they broke apart, John could see Sherlock grinning just a little too brightly. They went home, Sherlock walking too fast. 

And he’s has been like that for the last few days. A lot like he was when John just met him, and when he just came back, too. Always moving. Arrogant. Annoying. Attractive as hell - John’s willing to give him that. Sherlock is radiating dominance. But he’s also practically vibrating with tension, stumbling over his words as he deduces at high speed. John wonders whether it’s hormones, that Sherlock’s near a heat now, or whether this is just what Sherlock is like when it comes down to it. 

Sherlock spends the next day with Violet, and as soon as John comes home in the evening, Sherlock drags him along on a case. He’s brittle with energy, near-manic. Cruel in a way that John hasn’t seen him be in a long time, too. John spends most of the night running after him and apologising for him, so if that is what the bastard thinks counts as foreplay…

He wouldn’t exactly be wrong. 

John wanks in the shower, thinking of Sherlock suddenly walking in and saying, ‘I want you, John,’ into his ear, a hard cock against his back. 

But reality hasn’t quite caught up with that yet. 

 

-

 

As he’s walking from work to the tube, John sees a black car slow down next to him, and sighs. _Of course._ As if he doesn’t have enough to deal with, Mycroft needs to put in a word as well.

John opens the car door, ready to see Mycroft, but it’s Anthea. She nods blankly, and John gets in. Right, a detour then. 

John looks out the window. Sherlock’s always been like this, hasn’t he? It’s just that somewhere in the last few months John had forgotten what an arse he truly is. 

He eyes Anthea. 

She was the one who called Sherlock when Mycroft was in the hospital, John remembers that. So whatever cold act she’s putting on now, she does know exactly who he is. 

John’s about to say something like ‘So, how you’ve been?’ Not entirely because he wants to hit on her, but because at least it would make some sort of sense, he’s done that a million times before. Only, okay, not since he’s moved back in with Sherlock. But maybe he should. It wouldn’t be nearly as frustrating as _Sherlock bloody Holmes_. 

Anthea must have seen him looking, because she spares him a single glance that says quite clearly, _don’t_. 

John sits back.

He does think about it. Maybe he should just come out and ask Sherlock what the hell they’re doing - if it’s anything at all. John doesn’t have a clue, does he? He doesn’t know what Sherlock wants. Maybe Sherlock’s regretting that kiss, and he doesn’t know how to tell him. That would be fine - it’s all fine - but he would like to know, instead of this guessing. 

It’s frustrating. 

They don’t even go to some empty underground garage or a warehouse, just the Diogenes Club. Waste of a good kidnapping, John thinks. 

If Sherlock was here, he might have laughed at that. 

Anthea doesn’t give any further signs of even noticing him, so John gets out on his own and says, “Right, bye.” 

He hasn’t been here since the day he found out that Mycroft was pregnant. John remembers the rain, and going back into Tesco’s for the digestives. He remembers Mary, too, she just left, it all felt so new then. It hasn’t even been a year.

Mycroft’s not in his office this time, just a sitting room. John walks in to see him standing in-between a giant book case and a Renaissance painting. Mycroft picks his locations for these chats based on the drama factor alone, John’s sure. He would tell him not to bother, except that it does add something to his day, doesn’t it, a little clandestine meeting in a private member’s club. “You know, next time you can just text me.” 

Mycroft tilts his head. “Was it not easier to get a ride? Public transport is rather…” He pulls a face. “... _avoidable_ , don’t you think?” 

John wonders if this is about the germs he could bring along to Violet, or whether Mycroft was actually just doing that to be nice. He sits down. “You need me?” 

Mycroft eyes him. “You know why you are here.” 

Sure he does. “Sherlock.” Why else. 

Mycroft’s gaze seem to pierce him. “John, are you looking to have a sexual relationship with my brother?” 

John bursts out a laugh. Way to get straight to it. “What, is this the ‘hurt my brother and I’ll kill you’ speech?” John always thought that he got that one the first time he met Mycroft. He always assumed that Mycroft knew that, too. It’s the one thing they have in common, right? _Keep Sherlock safe._ They always did. 

“No.” Mycroft sighs. “It is mere concern.” 

John believes him. He wouldn’t have a year ago, he didn’t think that there was anything there but two siblings annoying the hell out of each other, but the last year has changed that, hasn’t it? Mycroft’s worried, and John can tell. 

“Sherlock is not... experienced.” Mycroft seems sure of that. 

John remembers him implying that Sherlock was a virgin, at the palace, years ago. John had assumed that it was just an insult at the time, although he did wonder. Sherlock certainly doesn’t kiss like someone who’s had a lot of practice. So, right, Mycroft wants him to go slow, or what? 

“More than that, I believe that he does not enjoy that particular activity.” Mycroft looks at him seriously, willing him to understand. “John, perhaps you should not ask it of him.” 

Oh, really? John’s annoyed at Mycroft for even assuming that he would push it. He hasn’t at all. Seriously, who does Mycroft think he is? That he’d just make Sherlock do something that he’s not into doing? But Mycroft looks deadly serious. So, fine. “Yeah, I think we can deal with that between us, thanks.” _I’m not talking to you about my sex life. Or lack of one._ “If that’s it?” John gets ready to stand. 

“Also I have told the nanny that I will be home in time tonight, so Violet is not at Baker Street.” 

John doesn’t know what to say. Is Mycroft assuming that they’re going to get it the moment John walks through the door? 

He just leaves. 

But he does think about it on the way home. If Mycroft thinks that this is not going to happen, plus Sherlock’s behaviour, maybe he should just be clear then. Say that he doesn’t expect a thing from Sherlock. They can go back to the way it was. 

If they have to. 

 

-

 

But then John gets home, opens the door, and sees a flash of... John stills before his eyes can fully take in what he sees. 

Sherlock, lying stretched out on the sofa. _Naked._

Very naked. 

Sherlock says, “You can close your mouth, John.” 

...All right. John’s still holding the door handle. He keeps his eyes steadily on Sherlock’s face. And then realises that Sherlock probably did this for him to see, so John lets his eyes follow Sherlock’s neck, over his chest and stomach, to Sherlock’s cock, half-hard, between long legs. 

John closes the door behind him. “Is there a reason why you’re…” he looks Sherlock over. 

“Obvious, I thought.” Sherlock seems smug. He puts a hand on himself, and completely unselfconsciously fists his cock. Back and forth. Just for a couple of strokes, but it’s enough to make John’s heart thump heavily.

Sherlock is gorgeous. He’s all pale skin and angles, and John can’t pull his eyes away. He wants to do so much to him that he doesn’t even know here to _start_. 

But John remembers what Mycroft said, and the awkward kissing, so he stays standing right where he is, and asks, “You’ve done this before, then?” 

Sherlock looks at him with a grin. “Don’t be an idiot, John.” 

Yeah, he’s trying pretty hard not to be an idiot right now, thanks. He wants Sherlock five ways to Sunday. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

Sherlock sighs in frustration, and jumps up, a quick flash of limbs and skin and cock, gets in front of him, and leans in. 

_So yes then,_ John thinks right before he meets Sherlock’s lips, eagerly. 

Sherlock is a lot less hesitant this time, all tongue and hurry. It’s obvious he’s not sure what he’s doing though, he’s still awkward. So John smiles, and tries to slow it down a bit. When Sherlock doesn’t want to, and kisses him even harder, John leans back, puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and says, “Slower, okay?” 

Sherlock seems confused, so John takes the lead. He deepens the kiss, and Sherlock lets him, but it’s with a stiltedness that gives him pause. 

John moves back and breathes, looks down at a whole lot of naked Sherlock, and it’s amazing. John wants to tell him something like _beautiful_ , or ask _why now?_ but he’s stopped by the look in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock looks like he’s steeling himself. Does he think that John won’t like what he sees? Or is it the kissing? 

Anything more is cut off as Sherlock moves in, and kisses him again, urgently. So John slows him down again, puts a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, and another on Sherlock’s naked back, and tries to calm him down a bit. John’s lips actually hurt from that much force. But Sherlock goes straight on to his neck, peppers kisses there, sucks wildly. John can feel the desire pulse, he wants him, he does, but it just seems… John leans back. 

Sherlock blinks at him. “What?” 

He looks so goddamn good. Not hard anymore but that’s probably the nerves, and yeah, John can see it in his face, Sherlock’s _nervous_. That’s it. John smiles, and says, feeling elated, “We have all night.” Or more, really - all week, all month. They have ages to figure this out. “Don’t need to hurry.” 

But that was the wrong thing to say apparently, because Sherlock’s face falls. “Of course.” It sounds kind of hollow. 

Maybe he had some idea of how this would go. Knowing Sherlock, he planned it and now John is ruining his brilliant seduction. John smiles. He looks at Sherlock, and feels something great push free. What is he doing, complaining about this? Sherlock can do whatever he feels like. John says, warmly, “Come here.” 

Sherlock leans towards him again rather stiffly, but as soon as John kisses him, Sherlock kisses back, hard. John gives up on steering him, just lets him, time to work on that later, right? And when it’s too much, John kisses Sherlock’s neck himself. A bit of a lick, a suck, he knows how to do it right. 

But Sherlock doesn’t really respond. 

John hasn’t heard him make a single sound, either. Not a moan, or a sigh. John flicks his tongue over the joint between Sherlock’s shoulder and neck, bites, he lets his hands travel down to pull him closer, but he has to pull quite hard before Sherlock stumbles close. 

John looks up. Is Sherlock holding back from turning him around and taking him? Is that it? Because it’s definitely something. Sherlock looks distant. As if he’s in his mind palace, thinking about a case. 

John lets him go, hesitantly. “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock blinks, and focuses on him again. “Hm?” 

“Do you like this?” John places a hand on Sherlock’s back to underscore the question, and he sees not a shiver, or a tensing of muscle, but a small frown on Sherlock’s face that’s smoothed out straight away. John steps back, and he can feel, along with Sherlock’s body heat, his own arousal fall away in a cold shiver. “You don’t?” 

Sherlock briefly looks panicked, and then says with some confidence, “It happens to all men, John.” 

John looks down, and right, Sherlock’s not hard any more, but that’s not what he meant. Okay. Not going to happen tonight, then. That’s fine. John looks at Sherlock, but he can’t get past the nakedness here because he’s so fucking stunning. “Can you wear some clothes?” 

Sherlock looks as if he’s about to argue, so John says, “Please?” 

Sherlock nods, and disappears into his room, giving John a perfect view of his arse in the process because fine - John isn’t a saint and _of course he’s bloody looking_. 

John sits down on the sofa, and presses the palms of his hands over his face. He can feel a laugh burst free. Five _years_. Five years of wondering, and… He’s still hard, too. Obviously so. 

He breathes. 

Sherlock comes back fully dressed, apparently he took him at his word. He’s even wearing shoes. 

John’s still smiling. Sherlock eyes him, and then says, slowly, “John, I am not… good at this.” He says it as if he is admitting a dire secret. 

John laughs a bit. The last woman he slept with turned out to be a sociopath. Also he might have been pining for Sherlock for years, so he could hardly get it up for Mary. “Neither am I, trust me.” 

Sherlock seems puzzled. “Of course you are. You’re a romantic.”

“Um...” John shakes his head. “Yeah, no, I’m not.” Sherlock might be the only person who’s ever called him romantic. John has always been the opposite, forgetting birthdays and calls, being not sensitive enough. He’s been called an alpha. A bastard. Rarely anything good. 

Sherlock seems unsure. “I have never understood the point of it.” 

“What, romance?” John might agree with him there. 

“Relationships.” 

Right. That’ll be it, then. “So have you ever...” 

“No.”

Sherlock didn’t even know what John was going to ask. Which probably doesn’t mean a lot of good. Been in love? In a relationship? Had sex? Wanted to? Sherlock didn’t even like his heat, John remembers, he was that desperate for it and he didn’t want to have sex then. 

Sherlock is obviously trying not to look tense, but not quite succeeding. He really is a virgin, then? John says, “That’s fine.” He smiles. Not a problem, right? They’ll just take it slow. 

They can figure this out. 

Easily.

 

 

 

 

 


	20. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock hates this. 

Human sexual response is predicable and straightforward - he should have been able to fake it convincingly. Or he could have gotten John drunk, first. Or at least tried to have sex in the dark, where John wouldn’t notice how much he doesn’t want it. Sherlock could have taken any of the medications readily available in order to get an erection, it wouldn’t have been difficult at all to get some. He even could have injected himself and gone into heat - just the thought is enough to make him nauseous, but he could have, for John. 

He’s useless. Sherlock got to have John close, and he could have kept him there, if only he would have been a bit better at a perfectly normal human reaction. He knew that he wouldn’t feel it, then why…

Sherlock knows why, of course. Why he didn’t do it in the dark, or get John drunk, or any of it. He’d naively, stupidly, thought that maybe it would be enough that it was John. 

Sherlock’s body reacted before John was there at the idea of it, so he thought that perhaps he could stay hard. Sherlock tried to kiss John himself, so that he didn’t have to feel the interplay of his tongue and lips too intensely. Sherlock thought that if he overwhelmed John, John would come quickly, and that it would be over then. That John would be happy. 

Sherlock wanted to show John everything he had, his whole body, give it to him to do with whatever he pleased. And Sherlock had thought, _hoped_ , that because it was John, it might be bearable. 

It wasn’t. 

 

-

 

Sherlock thinks about it all through the night. He knows that this is his fault, his defect. He needs to solve it. 

When John comes down for breakfast, Sherlock is ready. He pushes a mug of tea into John’s hand, and says, “I am not experienced at sex.” 

John blinks away sleep, and then looks him over seriously. “Yeah, I guessed. That’s fine.” John smiles, and sits down at the table. Sherlock has laid out a spread of food, and John starts picking at it. “So you haven’t done much of anything…?” 

The truth. “I have kissed, and given oral sex.” 

Sherlock thinks that John will ask why he hasn’t received it, why, but John just nods, and reaches for a piece of toast. He starts spreading butter over it with a knife. 

Sherlock knows what he has to say. _Surely there are some things you can do for him._ He offers, “I can give you a hand job.” 

John raises his eyebrows, laughs in surprise, and then takes a drink of his tea, and eyes him. “You’d like to do that?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock is not lying. Theoretically, he would like to feel John in his hand. 

John’s eyes are glittering. “All right, yeah. Simple, a good place to start.” 

Sherlock wants to move towards him, but John laughs. “Not now! I have to be at work.” John looks at him. “Tonight?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock swallows. His throat hurts. 

John smiles, something a little wicked there. He seems so happy. 

 

-

 

Violet is over during the afternoon, and Sherlock’s glad of the distraction. He thinks about making a list of things he is capable of doing, and offering it to John so he can choose. But then Sherlock has no experience with most of the sexual actions he found online, so he has no real idea as to whether he could deal with them. 

Violet is too young to be bothered by the internet research, but still Sherlock tilts her head away from the screen. 

He feels a faint wave of arousal, but as always it’s more about what he is imagining than about what will really happen. But maybe he can control it, somehow. 

Sherlock texts Mycroft. “Pick Violet up early? SH” He thinks about lying, but the truth will make Mycroft more likely to agree, so he adds, “Want to be with John tonight. SH”

Sherlock can imagine Mycroft’s raised eyebrow. What he gets back is, “Well! Far be it from me to deny you such a request. I will be there at 6. M” 

Sherlock makes sure Violet is fed and changed, and then when Mycroft lets himself in, Sherlock hands her over to him, and says, “I need to shower.”

Mycroft asks with a small, teasing smile on his lips, “Urgent, is it?”

“Yes.” Sherlock will touch John, to orgasm. He will, and it needs to be perfect. 

Mycroft laughs, and lets himself out. “Have a pleasant night, then.” 

Sherlock washes, wears something he knows John likes, and by the time that John comes home, Sherlock has looked up hand job techniques and he is waiting on the sofa. He wants John to be happy. To feel good. For it to be splendid.

John comes in, and Sherlock feels a shock of nerves. 

John seems normal as he takes off his jacket, but then he looks back, and it’s right there, heavy and tense between them. “Hi.”

“Hello, John.” Sherlock doesn’t know what else to say. 

John comes closer, sits next to him on the sofa, and glances at his mouth. John wants to kiss him, Sherlock thinks. So he does it himself - leans forward, and kisses him. 

John returns it, but only a small press of lips, nothing more. Sherlock waits for it to grow hard and annoying, but it doesn’t. John is holding back. 

“Nice to see you, too.” John is joking, smiling again. “I was thinking of this all day, you know.” 

Sherlock can feel some nervousness in his throat. He brushes his nose against John’s cheek, and John turns his face a little. He smells good. Warm, comfortable. Sherlock can almost taste the rumble of John’s voice as he laughs, a low, breathless sound. 

Sherlock licks John’s jaw, and John’s breath stills. So he does it again, and tastes John’s skin, smooth and a little salty under his lips. It’s nice, it makes something in his stomach pinch. If only he could bond to John, that would be easier, then it would just happen. 

Sherlock puts a hand on John’s leg, and moves it upwards. His fingers find John’s crotch, and under the fabric, the shape of his penis. John’s eyes are shining with something that Sherlock finds hard to look at. “You want me to open that?” 

Sherlock looks down at where his hand is cupping John’s crotch. He presses his fingers down, and John responds, his lips part. 

“Yes.” 

John takes a shaky breath, and smiles. He unfastens the button of his trousers, and lowers the zip. Sherlock watches him anxiously. John pushes his trousers down as much as he can while sitting down, and then his pants. Sherlock sees a glimpse of him, and then John is bare, and his cock is right there. 

John says, “I can…”

But Sherlock reaches out, his fingertips touch John’s skin there, and John stops speaking abruptly. John’s penis feels warm, and very smooth. 

John lets his legs fall open as Sherlock traces his fingertips over him. John is large for a beta. The base has some dark blonde curls. Sherlock moves his hand upwards over the shaft, to the top, where he strokes over the small bit of foreskin still there. And then traces a finger over the tip, and John shifts. 

John seems aroused in all ways, Sherlock notes. John has a flush on his face, his breathing has quickened, and his pupils are enlarged. Sherlock could take his pulse, but it is more interesting to feel John’s penis, and to take it fully into his hand.

Sherlock can smell it, too. John’s musk is sharp in his nose. He thinks about leaning down and licking it, tasting him, but then he knows what comes after that, and he doesn’t want to… he swallows over the closed feeling in his throat. Maybe he could endure it for John, if he had to, but he’s not certain. Plus, he’s giving John a hand job, today. He explicitly said that he would do that. 

Sherlock lets go, brings his hand to his nose, and smells it. The scent of John. It is intriguing. 

Sherlock licks his hand, a quick swipe of his tongue over his palm, and tastes a faint trace of musk. Sweat as well. There are pores on his hands, and he is sweating, so arousal for him, too? No, he does not have an erection himself, not at all. 

John is looking at him, so Sherlock reaches out to touch him again, and John’s penis jumps by itself right before he reaches it, eager. 

John laughs at the sight, a low, pleased sound. 

Sherlock wraps his wet hand around John’s erection, and gives a slow stroke up. John keeps on looking at him. Sherlock hesitates. Does he need to say anything? Do anything? Up again, up and down until John comes, he does know that, but it needs to be slow, too, enjoyable. 

John moves, a little push of his hips, so that he is in his hand more securely. 

Sherlock’s heart is racing, he notes distantly. His fingers feel cold, somehow, even though he knows that they are not. 

Sherlock moves his hand to the edge of John’s pubic hair, and traces it downwards to feel John’s balls. He holds his hand between John’s legs, where it’s very warm, and a little sweaty. Sherlock’s fingers find the loose, soft skin. He touches them curiously, and John leans his head back, and swallows. 

Sherlock thinks about sticking his nose there. Of smelling John that closely, breathing him in until there is nothing else in the world left. He presses down on the surge of emotion that brings. 

Sherlock wants to keep John here forever. On the edge of this, because John looks at him as if he trusts him, now. As if he thinks that this will go well. And Sherlock already knows that it won’t, because he won’t be enough. He can fake it, and maybe he can learn enough to make it last for a while, but it won’t work. 

John must have noticed something, because he moves. Sherlock lets go of him, no, no, did he already do this wrong? What did he do? He looks down at his hands, but John pulls his arms around him, and, oh, hugs him. Or something like that. Sherlock hugs back, briefly unsure of what else to do. Then John pulls him down sideways on the sofa to lie next to him, and Sherlock does. 

John says, “Want you close to me,” as if he’s confessing a secret. 

Sherlock echoes, cautiously, “I want you close to me, too, John.” 

John’s face breaks into a smile. Then Sherlock puts his lips to John’s neck again, he likes it there, and he looks down as John takes his hand, and puts it back on his erection. 

Sherlock can’t move it well, between the both of them, but John seems to prefer it like this. He’s breathing shallowly. Sherlock looks up at him right as he tugs a little harder, and John says, “Oh, god!” and then bites his lip. 

So Sherlock does it again. He is lying close enough to John that he can feel him tremble. 

John closes his eyes, and breathes, so Sherlock lets his hand loosen, just trails over him. When John opens his eyes and looks at him again, flushed and beautiful, Sherlock tightens his hand again. John instinctively moves his hips so that he thrusts into his hand. “Sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry?” Sherlock’s voice is low, he’s nearly whispering. He doesn’t know why. 

John smiles. “I’m close already, and all we’re doing is…” He looks down. 

“You are allowed to come, John.” 

John breathes in when he says that, and his hips thrust again, purposely now. “Yeah? Am I?” 

There’s something in his voice that’s teasing, and wry, and aroused, too, and Sherlock isn’t sure what he needs to reply. Eventually he says, “I want to feel you come.” 

John moans, and says, “God, you don’t know what you do to me. _Jesus_ , Sherlock, I…” 

Sherlock moves his hand faster even though his wrist is feeling as if it is going to cramp. And then John suddenly buries his head against his chest, shudders, and says, “Sherlock…” with something deep and pained in his voice while Sherlock can feel him spill all over his hand. 

Sherlock keeps on going for a couple of strokes, and then loosens his grip. John stays like that, breathing against his chest with hot, wet breaths for the next forty-three seconds. Sherlock is counting. 

When John leans back again, Sherlock looks over his face. John seems happy, somewhat, but his eyes seem shiny, and he looks away, embarrassed. Then swallows, and looks back at him. “That was… yeah.” 

Sherlock doesn’t know what it was. 

His hand hurts, and he is keeping it still because there is come on it. 

John’s moved enough that Sherlock can see John’s penis, still half-hard, with wetness at the tip that catches the light. 

The smell is all around them. John’s come. Sex. Sherlock feels shaky, now. He glances at John. Moving away will be difficult since John is blocking the way. Sherlock really wants to wipe his hand on something, but there’s nothing close by except his own trousers, and that would ruin them. If they aren’t already, he doesn’t know whether any of it got on the sofa or his clothes. 

John looks at him, smiles, and then moves his hand down between them. Sherlock presses his back against the cushions, but he can’t go far and it’s too late anyway, John has felt it. 

“You’re not…?” John asks, and he doesn’t seem angry yet, but he will be eventually, Sherlock knows. He doesn’t meet John’s eyes. No, he’s not aroused. Not at all. “Do you want me to, um?” John sounds hesitant. 

Sherlock can feel his heart tear, because no, John’s hands all over him there, the thought alone is enough to make him shudder. Maybe, if he gets deep into his mind palace, he can get hard, and probably even come, too. But not like this, not this close by. 

So he says, quietly, “No.” Already knowing that John will be hurt. That he is taking something away from him. That John will want it. 

John frowns, briefly, but he does move away a bit. And then, with a look, gets off the sofa. He pulls his trousers up. Sherlock gets up, too. He looks at his hand. John’s come is sticky between his fingers. Slick. He brings it closer to his nose, and smells it. 

John, from a couple of paces away, inhales sharply. 

Sherlock looks up, and sees John’s eyes on him, a strange expression between lust and… regret? He doesn’t know. 

Sherlock goes to the kitchen, and washes his hands. Dries them. He feels a rush of tactile information now, detail and scent and touch, he can still feel John’s skin under his fingertips, still remembers the brush of John’s hair, and licking the edge of his jaw.

He feels drained. 

John is studying him, Sherlock can see. “So, you don’t…?” John looks at his crotch meaningfully. 

“Not often.” The last time Sherlock touched someone sexually was eight years ago. The alpha came in his mouth, and Sherlock couldn’t swallow for two days without feeling the dry burn in the back of his throat. “It’s all transport,” he says, not entirely believing it. But John has heard the words before, and he understood them back then, so maybe that’s enough. 

John sighs. “Why did you do it, then?” 

_Because I love you. Because you are worth it, John. I will do anything, anything at all._ “I wanted to.” It seems to be the right thing to say, because John’s eyes soften. Sherlock goes on, “I wanted to touch you.”

John smiles briefly, charmed. “Okay. Okay, well, you’re allowed to. For future reference.” 

So John wants to do it again. Sherlock did expect that, John has a high sex drive for a beta. He nods.

John is still smiling, and says, “Chinese for dinner?” 

“Egg rolls.” 

Sherlock lies back on the sofa, and looks at the ceiling. He listens while John places the order at their third-favourite Chinese place, and tries to stop feeling the sensation of John’s come between his fingers. 

He can do this. 

He has to, now.

 

 

 

 

 


	21. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft is not certain whether his interference helped at all. 

Sherlock still seems tense and completely out of his depth, but John and Sherlock have weathered so much turmoil together, surely this will be navigable. 

Mycroft himself has not had a relationship in many years. He did try when he was younger, mainly alphas from his circle of acquaintances, until that became unmanageable in terms of secrecy. Some from outside his work context after that, but none of it was much more than a bit of diversion. On both their parts, Mycroft assumes. At times they did want more, but Mycroft always immediately ended it when they did. There is no sense in connecting to others that way, or not without great sacrifice, which he had not been willing to make. 

Mycroft has tended to avoid entanglements of any kind in the last few years. Too much of an emotional leap for something that he knows will fade rapidly, and leave nothing but regret for the energy spent. 

And now he has Violet, so all of his free time goes to her instead.

Anthea has a string of lovers. She gets a thrill out of controlling them, and does not leave them as much as expect them to realise that they need to disappear because they have become uninteresting. Mycroft understands her on that point quite well. In fact, she is probably the closest thing he has to a friend, in the sense that she is his employee, and can be depended on. She knows what he could do to her and her career if she would ever cross him, and she has wisely decided to be loyal to their shared causes. 

And then there is Sherlock and John, whom Mycroft now both considers to be family. 

He finds the development of his dependency on them somewhat difficult. Mycroft does not live easily with the thought that he is still bonded and indebted to Sherlock. And that Sherlock is so involved in the care for Violet. Part of him cannot help but see it as a potential hazard, as something that will be painful when it ends, so that it might be more cautious for it to be ended now. But then Mycroft sees Sherlock with Violet, and he knows that he would deprive them both if he were to stop it. That Violet will need love in her life, and that Sherlock quite obviously wishes to give it to her. 

Perhaps Sherlock has always has wanted something like this. A family. 

Mycroft has always known that they differ in very essential ways. Sherlock lives with great amounts of emotion within himself, he is easily hurt because of it, and it makes him vulnerable. Mycroft has always tried to protect Sherlock from that defect by telling him that emotion is not to be trusted, and teaching him to control his mind and his body. He did all of it to spare Sherlock more pain, but Sherlock has never seemed more stable than he is now, surrounded by friends and holding a child. His emotion has a purpose now. 

Mycroft would have been much more vocal about the danger of putting one’s faith in other people before he had Violet. Now, he does not understand fully, but he can attempt to. Now, for the first time in many years, he would consider himself and Sherlock to be close. And by extension, John as well. 

 

-

 

Later that month, Mycroft goes to pick up Violet from Baker Street. 

He is late. They are working up to the Indian elections, and while that is not entirely within his sphere of influence, the people who control it should be. He has taken advantage of some quiet time to read up on tomorrow’s files - he is starting to learn not to take too much work home. Especially not if it is urgent, because Violet seems to be able to sense it on him, and then chooses those nights as the ones where she is awake more than should be possible for one that small. 

She had a cold last week, too, which made her cough in small gasps, and made Mycroft extremely wary of letting her sleep unsupervised. He spent many hours lying awake simply listening to her. 

It is after eight when his car stops at Baker Street. Mycroft feels faintly guilty about that. The nanny brought Violet here at three, so that is a lot to ask. 

But, as so often, when he walks up the stairs and opens the door, he is greeted by a scene of domesticity. John is in his chair, Violet in the crook of his arm, and he is reading out loud from a battered book. 

“On the ship, in which she had left the prince, there was life and noise...”

Sherlock is sitting in his own chair, quite plainly listening to the story as well. Mycroft stops in the doorway, and waits. 

He is aware that something has changed between John and Sherlock. Their body language is off, but he chalks it up to their recent sexual exploits. Sherlock hasn’t said anything more, and Mycroft had thought that it would be useless to call John in again. There is a point at which it is no longer up to him to comment. 

When John finishes and closes the book with a flourish, Mycroft walks in, and says, “New reading material?”

“Yeah. Someone,” John nods at Sherlock, “has been telling her murder bedtime stories, so I thought that maybe we should both re-learn the classics.” 

Mycroft looks down at Violet in John’s arm. She is calm, but her eyes blink open as she sees him. He has been trying to be more vocal around her. Sherlock was quite right, it is important for her verbal development that she is spoken to. So Mycroft says, feeling entirely awkward, “Hello, my dear.”

John gives him a strange look, and then grins. “Nice to see you too, Mycroft?” 

Sherlock bursts out a short laugh. 

Mycroft would feel somewhat self-conscious if he did not see the clear amusement in John’s eyes, obviously inviting him to joke along. So he says, “Always a pleasure, John.” 

Mycroft takes Violet from John’s arms, and then turns towards Sherlock. He seems well, Mycroft thinks, still somewhat nervous, but he cannot deduce any signs of true stress. Plus, the fact that he was here being read to by John reveals a certain level of comfort. Mycroft recognised the wording. “The Little Mermaid, was it?” 

Sherlock nods. 

Mycroft cannot remember reading it to Sherlock as such, but they did own the book as well. “You read it when you were four. You were scared of turning into bubbles.” 

John laughs, as Sherlock seems indignant. “I was not.” 

Yes, he was. Sherlock had crawled into his bed, and Mycroft made up a story about a pirate named Sher-beard who did not fight the monsters, exactly, but who was always fast and clever enough to escape with the treasure. Looking back on that, Mycroft might have borrowed rather heavily from Robin Hood. It is bizarre how well he can remember those moments from their shared childhood, while they did not mean anything specific to him at the time. 

Mycroft says, “You will have to tell her the story of Sher-beard.” 

He knows that Sherlock remembers from the sudden look of recognition on his face. 

“Sher-beard?” John asks, sounding amused. 

“Sherlock was quite fond of pirates.” 

“It’s a story Mycroft made up,” Sherlock says, stopping him before he mentions the frankly outrageous length of said story. Sherlock did not simply like it, he was obsessed with hearing it for years. 

Sherlock glances at him. “I’ll tell her.” 

Mycroft nods back, and feels faintly touched. He had never thought that those stories would come back, or ever be mentioned between them again. That Sherlock remembers those nights, comfortable in bed together, creating worlds of magic, of laughter. Or that they would be able to recreate that for another child. 

That is how the world turns, Mycroft assumes. People pass on what they can.

Sherlock responded to the news of his pregnancy with ‘Leaving a legacy, are we?’ Mycroft had disliked hearing it at the time, but he finds that he does not mind the thought as much now. Perhaps they can. By shielding her from all the bad in this world, and passing on the best of what they had themselves. 

John is looking between them, and says, “So, Mycroft, you doing anything for Christmas? You spending it at your parents’?” 

“No.” It will become problematic eventually - neither Mycroft or Sherlock can see them in person without giving away that they’ve bonded. Sherlock is obviously dreading it as well since he has not told them. And the longer that Mycroft does not inform them about Violet, the less he feels inclined to do so. Why should he let them near his daughter, when they themselves raised them the way they did? Why should they be allowed to hold his child, or to even interact with her at all? 

“We were thinking of doing something here for Christmas Eve.” 

“You want Violet to be here?” Mycroft would not mind that much. 

“No.” John smiles. “Or well, yes, but we’re inviting you as well.” 

Mycroft clarifies, “To your Christmas party?” Mycroft looks at Sherlock, who simply nods. He is not pretending that John made him, instead it seems to be quite genuine. 

“It’s not really a party. Just, you know, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, that’s it.” John seems to want to reassure him. 

Mycroft does not know what to say. He does not enjoy social gatherings of any kind, let alone to celebrate Christmas. But he can see the slightly expectant way in which Sherlock is leaning forward. And John’s open, friendly expression. He is not being invited out of politeness, or for show, they actually want him to be there. And what would it really be, a couple of hours of listening to dull conversation? Eating some of Mrs. Hudson’s creations, and perhaps a drink or two? 

Mycroft finds himself saying, “Of course, I would be glad to attend.” He is not certain whether that is in fact the right wording, _glad_ seems rather overly positive, but still, he can do this for them. 

“It starts at seven.” John says, sounding pleased.

Mycroft locates Violet’s changing bag. It contains the things that they trade between all of them along with Violet - her cuddly toy, her dummy, a blanket, a tube of rash cream, and some other odds and ends that go wherever she goes. He turns to John, who says to Violet, “Good night, Violet! Have fun with Daddy.”

“ _Father_ , please.” Mycroft corrects John because while it was not as much of an issue when she was newly born, she will start speaking in a matter of months. He does not wish to be known as ‘daddy’ for the rest of his life, no matter how charming John seems to find the thought. 

John laughs. “Father, right - I’ll remember.”

Sherlock adds, “You could go with _papa_. It’s more likely to be her first word.” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Yes, thank you for your input.”

He puts Violet in her car seat, and turns towards Sherlock. “Do not teach my child any bad manners, would you?” 

Sherlock grins. So does John, as he says, “Can’t make any promises!”

Mycroft sighs, and lets himself out. 

 

-

 

Mycroft has faced much worse social engagements than a small Christmas party, especially in the days where socialising was an important tool in creating his network of information. But still, he finds it to be on his mind. 

Violet’s first Christmas. 

In his adult years, Mycroft has always tried to ignore the occasion as much as possible. It is hard not to notice the garish Christmas lights, London always appears to want to decorate its obvious appeal away and to turn into something that is photographed by the masses. But Mycroft prefers to pay no heed to it. 

He had not intended to do anything at all, to simply spend it at home with Violet. But Mycroft recognises that building some sort of tradition will be beneficial to her, so he does appreciate John and Sherlock’s invitation. That they would want him to join in their small circle of friends, and celebrate this moment with him present. 

Sherlock, in particular, has always been deeply fond of Christmas. Mycroft knows that it is because he tried to make it special for Sherlock, and so he should - of course - do the same for Violet. He should never let his own dislike of the holiday overshadow her experience of it. 

The next time Mycroft goes to Baker Street, there is holly on the windows. 

The week after that there is a Christmas tree in the corner, and John is decorating it while Sherlock offers his opinion about the battered ornaments. Mycroft walks in without either of them hearing, and he manages to startle Sherlock with a completely accurate and intricate deduction about a green, dented Christmas angel - bought between ’67 and ’68, a loan from Mrs. Hudson, given to her by her family on the occasion of her first year of marriage, simple. 

There is an offer of hot chocolate from John on the 20th of December. 

A trace of violin music, abruptly stopped when Violet cries, and Sherlock bouncing her up and down in his arms when Mycroft walks in on the 21st. 

A mince pie, already pre-wrapped on a plate and set next to Violet’s blanket, from Mrs. Hudson on the 23rd. 

And then it is the day of the party. 

Mycroft leaves work at four in the afternoon so that he is home in time to relieve the nanny, who has three days off for the holiday. Mycroft gives her an envelope with a Victorian-inspired Christmas card, and replies dutifully when she wishes him a Merry Christmas. 

He then tries to get some work done as well as get himself and Violet changed. In both cases not too early, because there always are potential accidents involving food or various bodily fluids waiting to happen around a baby, and Mycroft is all too aware of the danger of wearing a freshly dry-cleaned suit around her for too long. 

In the end, he does not decide on a full suit. It will hardly be a formal occasion, so Mycroft chooses somewhat more casual trousers and shoes, and a contrasting waistcoat. He has bought presents, but he does not intend to give them as much as simply leave them at the end of the evening. 

He also takes a bottle of champagne, and a nice red. He knows that there will be alcohol provided, but he does not think that John or Mrs. Hudson’s taste will exactly run towards the enjoyable when it comes to finer wines. Or even the at-all-drinkable. 

Mycroft takes both bags, and then places Violet in her car seat, and carries it all outside. He has a driver, naturally. It was a bit more difficult on Christmas Eve, but Mycroft is certain that the woman is well paid for her overtime. 

Mycroft feels slightly uneasy arriving at Baker Street, and seeing the windows brightly lit. He lets himself in, and he can already hear Christmas-themed music coming from the landing. The door upstairs opens. It is Sherlock, dressed in a sharp suit. He comes down the stairs.

“Good evening.” 

Mycroft is surprised that Sherlock would even think to come over and help him carry Violet, but instead Sherlock comes close, leans over him, and smells his neck. It is an odd greeting, but Mycroft still feels a small rush of warmth at it. He’s wearing his coat, so Sherlock presses his lips by the skin of his neck just where he can reach it, and Mycroft can feel a deep sense of rightness. Yes, this. 

Sherlock moves away after a short moment, and looks at him. 

“What was that for?” _Are you all right? Is John?_

Sherlock shrugs. “Christmas.” 

Well. That is probably understandable. Mycroft does not believe Sherlock entirely, but he hands him the car seat with Violet. Into the fray, then. 

Sherlock goes up the stairs first, and he uses Violet as a distraction, because Mycroft can hear the soft cry from Miss Hooper, “Oh! What a cutie!” 

And then Mrs. Hudson’s proud exclamation, “She’s growing so well, isn’t she?” 

So when Mycroft himself walks in, a simple “Good evening,” to the room at large is more than enough. 

John is standing closest to the kitchen, so Mycroft hands the bag to him. “I brought a red wine, and champagne.” 

“Oh, great, thanks!” John checks the labels, which he will not be able to judge, Mycroft thinks, but still John smiles. “Want to open one?” 

Mycroft does. He opens the champagne and pours it for all, takes a flute himself, and sits down on a chair. He tries not to mind too much that Miss Hooper is currently holding Violet entirely inexpertly, and that Violet is grabbing her hair by the fistful and attempting to stuff it into her mouth. 

Sherlock is sitting on the sofa, appearing relaxed. Mycroft wonders why he greeted him like that. Just general anxiety? Mycroft does find it a comfort himself, bonding. The warmth of it is still running through him. 

Mycroft sips his champagne, and contemplates that last Christmas, he was already pregnant. He did not know it yet, but he had been avoiding alcohol as a precaution during the months of his hormone treatment. 

And now he has Violet. 

She is nearly four months old. 

And is being cooed over, then passed on to Inspector Lestrade, who seems deeply uneasy, and grins at him briefly. “Sorry, yeah, I’m not…” He then hands her over to Sherlock, who holds her easily. 

Lestrade asks Sherlock, “So, you’re used to that now, having her around?” 

Mycroft is briefly curious about Sherlock’s answer, but it is John who says, “Yeah, it’s been an adjustment, never thought we’d have one here, but she’s great.” 

_Never thought we’d have one here._ Mycroft meets Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock nods at John and says, “She’s wonderful.”

Mycroft knows that it has nothing to do with him personally, but he cannot help but feel proud of that. His child being loved so openly. 

There is something very curious about what has changed in just one year, but he is grateful for it, Mycroft finds. 

In this moment, he can allow himself to be.

 

 

 

 

 


	22. (John)

 

 

John is having sex with Sherlock. 

It’s not what he expected it to be. It’s been a lot, well... more stilted. Awkward. It’s not ripping off clothes and begging, it’s not urgent and all about lust between them. It’s not how he imagined it at all, actually.

Sherlock touches with a slow, concentrated seriousness. Sherlock’s fingers stutter against the edge of John’s trousers, stroke his cheek, and briefly linger against his side. John knows that Sherlock’s not comfortable with it, not always, or not completely. But it’s still a breathless experience. They don’t kiss much, but every touch feels like one. 

Sherlock leans next to him, or carefully takes his hand, and John can feel his stomach contract with everything he’s not getting. Yet. 

They’re still the same as they always were. There’s no ‘new relationship’ phase. Most of their days consist of work, babysitting, and the occasional case. Quiet evenings at home. 

But it is what he always wanted, right? It might not be exactly what he thought it would be, but it’s close enough. 

It is. And okay, it’s not even nearly there, but they can do slow. Plus, so many years of fantasising added a bit of an impossible element to it, John guesses. It doesn’t matter that it’s not really great yet. They’re working on it. 

The first time that John lies down in Sherlock’s bed has nothing to do with sex. John is taking care of Violet on his own while Sherlock’s in the morgue. She’s crying, and he’s trying to calm her down, so John takes her to Sherlock’s bedroom the way Sherlock always does. 

She does fall asleep after a couple of minutes, but John selfishly stays there because the pillow smells like Sherlock. And he must have fallen asleep as well, because the next thing he realises is a movement on the mattress. John opens his eyes to look at Sherlock sitting down on the other side of the bed, smiling lightly at him, Violet between them. 

John reaches out, and touches Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock is staring at him. And it’s right there on John’s lips, in that moment. _I want you._ But John doesn’t say it. They’re quiet for Violet’s sake, but it’s more than that. 

John’s not even sure that they’re together now. 

He doesn’t know whether Sherlock even thinks in concepts like that. Sherlock did talk about romance for a bit there, but so far John’s seen none of it - Sherlock hasn’t let him touch him at all. John’s not sure if it’s just nerves, or going slow, or if he’s taking advantage here. John’s getting off while Sherlock isn’t. 

But then there are moments like this one, too. Where Sherlock just seems so… well, he probably loves him in a way. John does believe that. 

So he tangles their fingers, pulls Sherlock’s hand close, and presses a small kiss to Sherlock’s knuckles. 

Sherlock’s eyes go wide at that. And John would enjoy Sherlock’s confusion at it, if it weren’t all so strange to navigate. If Sherlock didn’t seem so very uneasy. 

They get up when Mycroft comes to pick Violet up, but John can still feel it ebb for a while after. 

He’s deeply _something_ , with Sherlock. He’s wanted him for a very long time, and this is the closest he’ll ever get to figuring it out, so that’s what they’ll do then. Give it a try. 

It’s all they can do, right?

 

-

 

Christmas is Mrs. Hudson’s idea at first. She wants to ‘have a do.’ 

John remembers last year’s - it’s been hard not to. How tense and miserable that was. It counts as one of the worst days of his life. So he says, “Not sure if we will?”

But Sherlock says yes. Sherlock wants something small at home, which is fine. John’s glad that Sherlock’s not insisting that they go back to his parents, at least. He’s not sure that he can spend any time in that living room when all he’d remember is lying to Mary there. Tasting the bitterness in the back of his throat at the sheer thought of what she’d done to Sherlock. 

Work is hell in the weeks leading up to Christmas. It’s winter, so it’s cold and flu season. And at home, it’s awkward. But they’re also close, and John can feel that play under his skin. He likes it, he does, getting to come with Sherlock’s hand on him, Sherlock’s eyes on him, it’s fucking great. But as long as he can’t return the favour it’s just not _complete_. 

Sherlock pulls away whenever John reaches out. 

Sherlock turns his head when John tries to kiss him. 

Sherlock freezes whenever they’re too close. 

Maybe he needs some time to get over his issues with touching. And maybe John’s just expecting too much here, and he can be patient, he really can. But there’s something so annoying about getting that close, nearly getting what he wants, and it just not being returned, somehow. 

Lord knows he’s waited long enough, so he doesn’t know why he’s complaining. Or yeah, he does - it’s just not what he hoped for, not at all. But when is life, really? 

It’s fine. 

Violet’s still around often. But either she’s calmed down on the crying, or they’ve just learned how to deal with it, because they get to have quite a few early evenings with her perfectly content on one of their laps, or bouncing in her chair, or playing on the mat, so that’s nice. 

John’s stopped looking at her and thinking about what it would have been if she was his. If Mary... all of it. Violet’s not. 

And that’s fine. 

 

-

 

The party goes well. 

Mrs. Hudson bought a pair of antlers for Violet that make Mycroft press his lips together in a disapproving line. 

It does look utterly ridiculous, John thinks. But Molly thinks it’s cute, and they take pictures. And then Violet manages to grab the antlers and stuff a bit of one into her mouth. They’re not exactly baby-proof, so Sherlock takes them away while mumbling about chemicals, and John dumps them in the bin when no one is looking. 

Greg puts away the drinks all evening, and ends up telling them all that he’s “Finally getting a divorce. You were right, Sherlock, she was sleeping around the whole time, but I couldn’t do it…” And then going off on a lengthy story about what his wife did wrong. 

Molly comforts him a bit with a hesitant tale of her own failed engagement. Tom was entirely wrong for her and they’d all known it, but John can’t fully fault Molly for that. For wanting. 

Mrs. Hudson adds some disturbing comments about her Frank. She says, “Oh, yes, he did cheat on me, but he had a big libido, you know, he was an alpha, and a big… well, that too. I was a very _happy_ girl!” They collectively keep her away from the drinks after that. 

Mycroft sits in a corner, steadily sipping his drink and wisely does not say a word. John sits down next to him while Sherlock takes Violet to the bedroom for a nappy change, and says, “Thanks for coming.”

Mycroft nods. “It was kind of you to invite us, John.” 

“It was Sherlock who wanted you to come, actually.” John doesn’t mind giving that away. Not after what he’s heard Sherlock tell Violet about Christmases when he was little. Actually, “All of his memories from when he was young are about you, did you know that?” 

Mycroft eyes him, but he doesn’t reply. 

“He tells Violet stories, about what you told him, the pirates, but all of it, growing up, stupid stuff. That you gave him a microscope, all of that.” 

John can see Mycroft blink, and he wonders if he’s not supposed to say this. 

But Mycroft simply nods, and then looks away.

Sherlock comes out of the bedroom with a freshly changed Violet, and hands her to Molly again, who seems delighted that he did. He comes to ask, “Do I play the violin now?” 

John listens to the conversation - yes, still on exes, so he nods. “I think so, yeah?” 

Mycroft sighs. “That would be a vast improvement, I think.” 

Sherlock takes his violin out, and as the first notes start, the conversation dies down. Sherlock had been out of practice a bit - as far as John can tell he didn’t play in the years that he was gone, and lately it’s been mainly lullabies - but he sounds amazing tonight. The warmth of the room, the light of the candles reflecting on Sherlock’s violin… It briefly reminds John of his wedding, but no, he pushes that away. 

He looks at what’s really here. 

Sherlock, playing for them, and looking up occasionally with a soft, private smile. It doesn’t matter that it feels off, still, John wants to sleep with him tonight. To kiss him. And the thought that he might get to... it’s insane. It’s great. 

Mycroft is sitting next to him silently. Greg is listening to the music as well, but not as much as he’s looking at Molly. Molly’s smiling as she rocks Violet. 

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes are watering just a little. John knows what she’s thinking, that she’s so glad that Sherlock’s back, that they’re all here together again. With the addition of a baby that she’s starting to look at as a grandchild, John suspects. It’s like it is for John, Violet is not hers, but the next best thing. The closest she’ll get to it, too. 

After the music, they chat, and laugh. 

Violet sleeps on and off in people’s arms. When she starts to cry, Sherlock takes her to his room, puts pillows around her, leaves the door open, and comes back. 

After midnight, it slows down. Greg gets up first, saying, “I have to work tomorrow, actually. Don’t have a family, so I volunteered.” 

Molly goes with him. “Yes, me too, and I’m working New Year’s too…” 

Mrs. Hudson gets up with a soft, “You have a merry Christmas now, boys.” She wavers a little, so John walks her down the stairs, and lets them all out. 

When John comes back, Mycroft is getting ready to leave as well. He’s already in his coat, but he’s slyly putting something on the living room table. 

John says, quietly, pretty sure he knows what it is, “What’s that then?” 

Mycroft turns, caught in the act. He smiles. “It is not Christmas without a present, John.” 

There are two presents, perfectly wrapped. John’s not sure where Sherlock is, probably in his room getting Violet, but John has an idea of how gift giving works between the Holmeses. “You want me to pretend that I didn’t see it, and find them later?”

“That will not be necessary.” 

Mycroft hands him the small box with a tag that reads ‘John’ in his familiar loopy handwriting. 

“Thanks. I’m sorry - we didn’t get you anything.” They did get several things for Violet. Toys, mainly. 

John opens it. It’s a watch. A nice one, actually, very nice.

Mycroft looks at him seriously. “John, you take care of my child daily. There is no greater gift you can give me.” 

Yeah, all the babysitting must be worth a gift or two by now. Although it’s Sherlock who does most of the work. 

John takes the watch out of the box. It’s probably the most expensive one he’s ever owned. He unclasps his own, puts it down - it had been getting a bit old, actually - and takes the new one. He struggles with the clasp. The leather is still stiff, and the small metal prong does not want to go. 

Mycroft reaches out to help, and John turns his hand, a bit surprised that he would. Mycroft clasps it carefully, his long fingers skilful on the leather band. John can feel his slight touch. 

Mycroft is looking at what he is doing. John knows it’s the evening, the booze, the fact that it’s late, and that the candles are sputtering out all around them, but it feels a bit… Mycroft meets his eye, a gentle look, and then says, “There.” 

John looks at his wrist, and turns it. The watch fits just right. Looks great, actually. “I love it, yeah, thank you.”

Mycroft nods, and Sherlock comes out of his room, carrying Violet. She’s fast asleep. He puts her into her car seat. 

Mycroft tilts his head and says, “Good night, John.” 

“’Night.” 

John starts cleaning up a bit as Sherlock walks them out, but when Sherlock comes back, John immediately walks up to him, and puts his arms around him. _Come here, you._

Sherlock stiffens the way he always does when touched.

There’s so much John wants to do to him. With him. He’s half-hard just thinking about it. Sherlock is gorgeous, but honestly what John wants the most is just to snog him a bit. John whispers, "Good Christmas, yeah?” 

Sherlock leans back to look at him, and says, “It was nice, John.” He untangles himself. 

Right. John tries not to be disappointed, the way he’s been for the last dozen times. He looks at the table. “Here, present from Mycroft.” 

Sherlock glances at it. “New phone. Expensive.” 

John grins. He doesn’t doubt it is. He eyes him, and wants to pulls him close again, but Sherlock goes back to playing his violin. Something slow and sad. 

Great. 

John goes to bed alone. He’s pretty sure that if he’d ask Sherlock outright he’d probably come up, but it’s just not... They’re not there yet. 

Even though it’s been over a month.

 

 

 

 

 


	23. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock tries. 

He is not a child. He is in control of himself, and he can make his body do this. For John. 

Sherlock tries to please John as much as he can. He tries to touch him, and to let John touch him back. Sherlock gives John fourteen more hand jobs. 

Sherlock says once, “You’re beautiful.” Meaning it in every single way. _John, you are everything._

But John rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to say that.” So Sherlock doesn’t mention it again. 

John wants to kiss daily, which Sherlock increasingly finds ways to get out of. Like kissing John’s neck instead, sucking there, or whispering into his ear, or even kissing his earlobe, which makes John flush for some bizarre reason. 

John’s body is interesting, at least. Sherlock traces the hairs on John’s warm, sensitive stomach. Carefully feels the weight of John’s balls in his hand. Sees John’s erection harden, and leak, near the end. Smells the scent of him, heavy in the air when John’s close to coming. Sees the way John’s lips curl in a half-smile, and then his mouth opens. The frown on John’s forehead that appears for a moment. The tension in his hands, the soft shudder. The exhale. 

John _is_ beautiful. John is the best thing that Sherlock has ever seen. 

But after, John always reaches out. John’s fingers sneak in between the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt to lie on his stomach, or John squeezes his arse, and Sherlock has to hold himself still so he doesn’t flinch. Sherlock has to control the shudder, the instant urge to pull away, and make himself smile. Make it appear as if it is turning him on. 

He’s not performing the way he should, and it won’t be long before John will bring it up again. Sherlock has been trying to avoid it because he doesn’t know what to say. _My brain does not work the way yours does John, where it’s all simple and predictable and touching means arousal and arousal means coming and smiling._

Sherlock takes medication once. A hormone booster first, that makes him feel twitchy, as if he needs to bond, but he can’t. Then Viagra, a double dose. He times it right so that he starts touching John when it takes effect. It is worth it, to guide John’s hand between his legs and see the joy on John’s face when he finds him hard. 

John breathes, turned on, “Can I - touch you?” even though he already is touching him. 

Sherlock nods, and watches John open his trousers for him, and do it, stroke him. It doesn’t feel like much. Sherlock is shivering, always cold, when he’s doing this. He can hear the blood thrumming in his ears. 

Sherlock watches John’s hair. The way John’s arm moves. 

It goes on for a long time. It feels like John’s fingers have always been there, pulling something uncomfortable away from him. But Sherlock does come, eventually. His toes curl, and he remembers to fake a moan when his stomach twitches and he spills in John’s hand. It hurts slightly. 

He can pull away from John’s touch now, so Sherlock lies back, trying to breathe down the tension in his chest. 

John takes himself in hand, leans over him, and says, “Oh god,” as he pulls himself fast. John comes, partly over Sherlock’s leg. 

John says things. Excited, happy things, but Sherlock isn’t listening. He can’t speak straight away. There’s a block in his throat he can’t swallow around. 

John kisses him, and then leaves to wash up. Sherlock lies there, half-naked, with come drying on him, and tries not to feel it so much. Surely dissociating should be simple. He has done it often enough. 

He is halfway there, entering his mind palace, his breathing evening out, when John comes back into view, holding out a washcloth. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock has to pull himself back into reality. The crawling feeling of drying come on his skin. Goosebumps. Some strained muscles. Cold. Eventually he finds his voice, and says, “That was wonderful, John.” 

John doesn’t seem convinced. So Sherlock gets up, and then presses his face to John’s shoulder, asking for a touch, which John predictably gives. John holds his arms around him, and strokes his back. Up and down, up and down. It’s annoying. The repetition feels as if it will rub Sherlock’s skin off. As if John is doing that simply to irritate him. But he’s not, Sherlock knows. He’s not, and this is good, it is what they need to be. 

Sherlock says into John’s ear, “It was great.” He hesitates. _Be specific, John likes that._ “To come with your hand on me.” He takes a breath. “You are perfect, John.” 

John laughs in relief, a low rumble that Sherlock can feel more than hear. “Well, okay then.” 

 

-

 

Sherlock wonders why John can’t tell that he’s lying. 

He doesn’t _want_ John to be able to tell, of course, but do other people do this as well? Pretend? Have other partners of John’s? Sherlock has heard it before, the jokes – lie back and take it. All of that. It’s certainly common enough. But Sherlock is fairly certain that if John would know that he’s pretending, he wouldn’t want him to do this. John would lie and tell him that he doesn’t need to force himself, that it’s fine, that it doesn’t matter. 

Sherlock wants to reveal it. To lay out the evidence and show John everything he’s missed. The pills that Sherlock keeps hidden in his bedroom. The way he forces himself. 

Except that John won’t be thrilled with this, of course. 

It was the same when Sherlock came back from being dead. He wanted to force John to look at all the things he’d done for him, and love him for them. For the sacrifice. But Sherlock never got to tell John then, and he’ll never get to now. Deception is necessary. John doesn’t want to know the truth. 

John loves this. 

 

-

 

They take a couple of cases. There’s a nice murder in a Greenwich townhouse committed by a group of actors. Then twelve missing ferrets in Bethnal Green and a fake kidnapping note - it’s obvious that the cleaning lady forgot to close the door and made it all up. But they chase a couple of ferrets though the street, and when one runs over his toes Sherlock makes a certain sound that makes John laugh so hard he has to stand still and gasp for breath. 

It’s one of the best moments that month. 

Violet figures out how to roll over, and they can’t leave her unsupervised on the bed anymore. Or the floor. Or anywhere. 

Sherlock briefly considers getting John something for Valentine’s Day when it comes along. It is a ridiculous holiday but then John might like the ridiculousness of it? Sherlock settles on taking John out to dinner but not mentioning the date at all, which works fine. 

Then Violet gets the flu, so that’s a hard week where she’s feverish and Sherlock feels so small, holding her, and not being able to do anything. 

Sherlock can’t relax even when Violet’s gone, not when he can still feel the heated skin of her forehead under his fingertips, and hear her sad, whining cries. Eventually John sighs, and does something to his phone. Two minutes later he gets a text, and says, “Mycroft says that that last Calpol helped to get her fever down, and that she’s asleep now.” 

John is amazing. 

John looks at him with something soft in his eyes sometimes. But then he also seems sad. Annoyed. 

Mycroft knows, of course. Sherlock can hear it in his tone, Mycroft _disapproves_ of this farce. But even he is not interfering too much, so it’s as if this is happening in some strange space between reality and a dream. 

Sherlock is not sure what John wants him to do, other than have sex. 

If they could bond, people would see the mark on John’s neck, and it would make sense. But they can’t. 

John is a traditionalist. A romantic. John cares about being normal, and seeming average. So Sherlock thinks of the alternative - marriage. He never wanted to get married, but it seems like something that he can do for John. A detail, compared to everything he has done already. 

One night after Violet has left, when it is just the two of them and John’s eyes are lingering on his, Sherlock sits down on the sofa and wraps his arms around John. It’s a bit uncomfortable, but it’s nice to hear John’s surprised chuckle, and “What the hell?” 

Sherlock looks at John, and judges his mood. It seems well enough. It is not as intense as the vow that Sherlock already made to John, so it does not feel like a big step to say, “We should get married.”

John stares at him. Then takes a breath to say something, smiles, and thinks better of it. “...You’re kidding, right?”

Oh, should he have done this on one knee? It’s only that John’s own proposal wasn’t like that, so Sherlock had assumed that John wouldn’t want it. And most certainly not in public, so this seemed right, an intimate moment at home. 

But, as Sherlock looks at John, he doesn’t seem happy at all. Perhaps he should have been clearer. “No, I am not kidding. We should get married. Soon, preferably, unless you would like a more extravagant wedding, in which case we need at least six months to plan.” 

John leans back. “Yeah, that’s…” He eyes him, and there’s a flash of fear there. “Why would you even...” John gets up, finds an opened book on the table, and puts it aside with an annoyed movement. Then shakes his head. “Sherlock, why would you even _say_ that?”

 _Because that will mean something._ But Sherlock says what he thinks will have the most power over John, “That’s what people do. Get married.” 

“People…” John looks at him, incredulous with anger. “What people…” He raises a hand, and says, “We’re not even a couple, Sherlock!” 

Sherlock blinks. 

Of course they are a couple. “We have known each other for nearly six years, we have lived together for three of those.” Surely, that’s it? They’re also raising a child. Oh, and, “We have sex.” 

John shakes his head. “Sherlock, it’s not… That’s not all.”

Sherlock frowns. “What else is there?”

John looks at him, and there’s so much pain there. Sherlock suddenly feels something terrible in his stomach. What if this is nothing for John? What if John doesn’t care at all? 

“Just… you can’t...” John sighs. “You know what? _NO._ I’m not dealing with this.” John takes his jacket, and walks out.

He slams the door.

 

 

 

 

 


	24. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft has seen something change between Sherlock and John. 

There is always change, of course. People grow closer together or further apart. Life runs on love and distance. Suffering and absolution. 

Sherlock seems to have committed himself to loving John, and it is very clear that he is making an effort. But Mycroft can see behind the mask. Sherlock seems pale. His hands tremble, occasionally. He only takes cases when John is there to come along, and often hurries through them. 

He is still entirely attentive with Violet, so Mycroft would never take her from him, but he does wonder whether it is all too much for Sherlock. Whether he is overwhelmed, or whether the past few years are taking a toll on him. Mycroft does not miss the way Sherlock hides his face against his neck, when they bond. It is always brief, but it makes him feel a shock of sadness as well. 

John seems to be the same. When he is with Sherlock, he is smiling often, and he is very good with Violet, especially when she is ill - Mycroft is glad to have John to keep sight of the medication. But when he sees them apart, John seems stilted. 

Mycroft tries. He asks after John’s job. “Oh, the same, you know, boring.” After John’s health. “Fine.” And after Sherlock, but John just sighs. He does not seem insincere so much as troubled. Finally, John admits, “It’s hard, trying to make something work.” 

Mycroft asks, wanting to be clear, “Your relationship?”

But John looks away. He shrugs. 

Mycroft finds it frustrating to see them like this. It is the sort of issue that he cannot solve without interfering to a rather radical degree, however, which he is cautious of doing. So he treads lightly around them both. 

Of course, Mycroft is busy enough himself. 

He has taken to getting back on the treadmill, and exercising with an area fenced off for Violet. He manages something between five minutes and half an hour a day like that, depending on how well she’s slept and her general mood. 

Violet has started her separation anxiety phase early. While she knows the nanny, Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson all very well and is it least moderately comfortable to be handed from one to the other, she obviously realises it now. She will look upset, and often full-out cry for whoever she is leaving. 

It is the beginning of her alpha-ness, Mycroft is aware. Her sense of self, and sense of others. But it is much harder to leave his child when she does not want to be left, and he feels more guilt about that now than when she was smaller. 

Mycroft occasionally thinks back to those first weeks. When everything was a haze of missed sleep, and pain and misery. When he, deep down, was doubting that he could ever be a loving parent. Or a good one. 

Now that they are past the beginning - Violet is nearly seven months - it is still difficult, but in a different way. She does not sleep through the night often, and on the rare occasion that she does, Mycroft wakes regardless to check on her. But she smiles, widely, and often. She bounces when she hears music, which is something that Mrs. Hudson has taught her. She seems especially fond of the radio and horrible pop songs. 

Violet is starting to vocalise often, repeating sounds, “na-na-na” and “pa-pa-pa.” Sherlock was quite right in predicting that she would be able to say that first. But she has not said anything with any purpose. 

She is taking the first steps towards becoming a person, and it is as if he hardly knows how it happened. She still is a small baby when he feeds her a bottle, when she has fallen asleep in his arms. But then she is energetic as well, she plays and screeches with laughter, she has a sense of humour, of curiosity. Mycroft finds his eyes on her often, wondering who she will become. 

Whom he is seeing the first flutters of. 

 

-

 

Sherlock has always kept his cases and Violet separated, a fact which Mycroft has taken for granted. 

While there are always case files spread around the flat - and perhaps some biological materials in the fridge that Mycroft would prefer not to think about in any depth - Sherlock has never taken a case while he has Violet. The times where he needed to, there was the nanny to call, or more often, Mrs. Hudson. It has never been an issue, and Mycroft thought their arrangement capable of keeping Violet away from all of that. 

That is, until he gets a text with an address he does not recognise. “Come and pick her up here? SH” 

Mycroft feels a rush of annoyance. It is not that he has specifically told Sherlock not to take Violet outside, he is aware that they do go to the occasional shop, or for a walk, but never to someone else’s home. It turns out to be much worse than that, because when the driver stops at the address Sherlock specified, it is a crime scene. There are lights of the police cars, people swarming around, and Mycroft is _livid_ at the thought that Sherlock took Violet into this mess of humanity. She is entirely too young and vulnerable for this. And more, Mycroft really did think that Sherlock had better judgement.

Mycroft gets out of the car. There is a police woman that wants to stop him, but Mycroft is not at all inclined to want to deal with her. He pretends not to hear when she shouts, “Sir! Sir! You’re not allowed…” 

Mycroft walks to where he can see Inspector Lestrade wandering around with a cup of coffee. “Where is he?” 

Lestrade turns around, and smiles. “Oh, Mycroft! You’re here.” 

_‘Mr. Holmes, please,’_ is on the tip of Mycroft’s tongue. But Mycroft is aware that after the Christmas party where he endured forty minutes of this man talking about his failed marriage they might be considered to be on a first-name basis, so he does not correct him. “Where is my brother?”

“Inside,” Lestrade says. And then, Mycroft is already walking, “Violet’s fine!”

That is something which he will decide for himself. Mycroft steps into the house. It is clean, at least. He follows the officers and crime scene specialists up the stairs to… Sherlock. Standing by a door, the changing bag over his shoulder, and with Violet strapped to his chest. She’s chewing on the side of Sherlock’s coat. 

Mycroft knows that the anger is clear in his voice, “What do you think you are doing?” Seeing Violet does help his worry somewhat, but it does not negate the fact that Sherlock took her here, between these _people_. 

Violet laughs at him, an open-mouthed smile showing her single tooth, dearly paid for with three days of crying and fever last week. 

Sherlock says in a quick monotone, “I did not enter the room. I have been here for approximately fifteen minutes and have not handed her to anyone else. Nor touched anything.” 

That is all good and well, but behind that door there is a dead body. “You cannot do this, Sherlock!” Violet does not belong here. “She’s seven months old, this is traumatic. I will not have my child around a corpse!” 

Sherlock nods. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

It is enough to slightly startle Mycroft, and he does not say what he was going to say next. Instead, Mycroft looks Sherlock over. He seems tired. He is holding Violet closely. He looks as if he does not want to be here at all. 

Lestrade walks up, and says, “Look, it’s my fault, all right? I picked him up and begged him to come.” 

Mycroft glances in the room. A single body, contained. 

Very well, then. Mycroft steps inside himself. He takes in the blood splatter, the state of decomposition, the general upheaval of the room, and walks out in less than thirty seconds. Easy, surely. Mycroft tells Lestrade, “Bludgeoning with a blunt object, if you didn’t find it here look outside in bins, or the Thames, possibly. Your killer is most likely someone who knew the victim.” 

Sherlock looks at him with a flicker of annoyance, so Mycroft rolls his eyes. _Yes, I can do this as well as you can, truly it is not difficult._

Sherlock adds, sounding a bit hoarse, “She’s addicted to painkillers. It’s not a drug deal gone wrong. She’s rich enough, try the son.” 

“Will do.” Lestrade looks between them, and grins. “You know, Mycroft, if you ever want a different career…”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “I do not believe that it would suit me.” How utterly useless that would be - the legwork, the locations, the people to interact with. And all for such a small reward. Mycroft can appreciate that Sherlock enjoys the puzzle aspect of it, but there is so little use in it. If Sherlock was smart at all he could keep it as a little hobby, and go into serious things along with Mycroft himself. There is much more worth in running an entire country, certainly. 

But Mycroft does not say any of this. They are old thoughts, old arguments, and there is no need to repeat them now. 

Mycroft would take Violet, but she is strapped to Sherlock, so he tilts his head at Sherlock, who, surprisingly, follows him out without comment. 

When they pass the police barriers again, Sherlock says, “She had her fruit at five, half a pear. She’s been changed forty minutes ago. She slept until four-thirty…” 

Mycroft interrupts him - he will see all that in the notebook they keep in the bag. “Why did you bring her here, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock opens the door to the car, unstraps Violet from his chest and puts her into the car seat. 

“Mrs. Hudson was not available?” If she was, she would have taken Violet. 

“At her sister’s.” Sherlock looks at him. “Your nanny’s at the doctor, her son twisted an ankle.”

And the most obvious question then, “John is at work?”

Sherlock looks away. 

Mycroft sighs. He is ready to let this drop until they can discuss it later, away from the police, away from all of this, but Sherlock steps into the car as well. 

Mycroft eyes him - he has very little patience for a detour right now, all he wants to do is get home, and spend time with his daughter. “You want to go home?” Sherlock might as well take a cab. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Yours is fine.” 

Mycroft looks Sherlock over, takes in the fatigue again, and nods at the driver. 

 

-

 

Sherlock spends the whole drive looking out of the window, and on one occasion, taking Violet’s sock when she throws it at him to get his attention, and puts it back on her foot. By the time that they’re home, she’s mostly fallen asleep from the movement of the car. Mycroft takes her inside, seat and all, hoping that she will stay quiet for a while. 

They sit in the library. 

Mycroft is aware that there is only one reason for Sherlock to look like this, so he broaches the subject. “Your relationship with John is not going well.” 

Sherlock says, sounding detached, “I asked him to marry me.”

 _Well!_ Mycroft hides his surprise. It is about time. However, judging by Sherlock’s demeanour, he did not get the desired reply from John. John might have some negative emotions surrounding the idea of marriage? Then again, it is an entirely different thing to marry an assassin he barely loved than it would be for John to marry Sherlock, Mycroft is certain of that. “John did not take it well?”

“He says that we’re not a couple.” 

Mycroft frowns. 

Sherlock looks away. His face is closed, and it reminds Mycroft of all the times that Sherlock did not feel good enough. All the times that he did not understand. That he cried silently in a corner because the other children wouldn’t even speak to him. Later, that look was there along with drugs. 

Mycroft feels some worry he quickly suppresses. Sherlock has grown a lot in the past few years. There are other solutions to his problems and he knows them. And, after all, Sherlock is here. Speaking to him. 

“Is John is not satisfied with your…” Mycroft could say this delicately, but then what Sherlock needs right now is clarity, “... _physical_ connection?” 

Sherlock says, dully, “I can’t fake it well enough.” 

Mycroft feels a brief flicker of annoyance, not this again, he already talked about this with John. Mycroft severely doubts that John Watson - the man who is entirely besotted with Sherlock, who is loyal, and kind, and who is currently raising a child along with Sherlock for no other reason than that they appear to want to - would need Sherlock to ‘fake’ it. 

Mycroft has never attempted a relationship without a certain level of secrecy himself, granted, but surely this is different. “Then simply tell him that you do not wish it?” He briefly thinks about his words, but he cannot see the flaw in them. 

Sherlock, however, looks at him and says, strangely sad, “He’ll leave.” 

_Then I will make him return._ One thing that Mycroft is aware of is that he will not lose Sherlock over this. He will not speak words that might harm him, but Sherlock needs to hear this. “Sherlock, the man shot someone for you. He mourned you, he forgave you, and he is deeply and utterly devoted to you.” 

Sherlock looks at him. “You believe that.” 

“Yes!" Mycroft tempers his voice. “I do.” 

Violet chooses that moment to let out a faint cry. Mycroft gets up, but before he leaves to get her, he looks at Sherlock, and reiterates, “I do, Sherlock.”

 

 

 

 

 


	25. (John)

 

 

After Sherlock’s absolutely out-of-nowhere proposal - _what the hell?_ \- John leaves.

He can’t deal with this right now. Can’t look at Sherlock, he just... can’t. 

John walks fast, and goes into a random pub. The beer’s overpriced, and there are too many city boys in making noise, some tourists in the corner, but he barely notices. He drinks his pint quickly. Another after that. He hasn’t gotten drunk in a while, and if there’s any moment that deserves it, this would be it. 

John plays with his beer mat. He looks to the TV, which has rugby on mute. He doesn’t actually follow it. 

Sherlock… He’s always been all ups and downs, annoying and frustrating and bizarre, but these last couple of months have just been _off_. Wrong. 

Sherlock’s been taking cases again regularly, but then when they have one, he rushes through it. Jumps from one conclusion to the next. John can barely keep up. And where Sherlock used to enjoy the reveal - he’d build up the examination of the corpse, the room, the deductions - now he just does what needs to be done, and then it’s over. Most of the time, it’s hardly fun. 

They haven’t been having fun. 

John’s stared at his blog and tried to make the cases sound amusing at least, interesting, but in the end he posts a picture of Sherlock with Violet sleeping on his chest. It gets a couple of hundred comments, mostly people asking whether she’s theirs. 

John replies to every single one to say no. 

John doesn’t have the faintest clue what Sherlock is about, asking to marry him. He honestly thought he was joking at first. 

John did this already, and Sherlock was right there. He should have married Sherlock instead - god knows that he thought that, right after he’d said yes to Mary, and Sherlock made that speech. John had thought, ‘if only…’ And now he has it. The _if only_ , but it’s nothing at all like he thought it would be. 

Out of all the futures that John imagined, if there was one where they finally got together, he had always assumed that it would be hard, sure. It’s hard work to deal with Sherlock. But the sex always was great in his head. Electric, the way their friendship is. 

And, John thinks - drinking his fifth pint of the hour, the barman’s giving him looks now - maybe that’s exactly what he did always know. Sherlock’s not like that. He doesn’t feel that. The whole getting married thing underlines it. Sherlock assumes that that’s how it goes, so he asked. He probably doesn’t feel a thing, because if he did, he’d know that it hurts. It fucking hurts, to finally have this, and it’s not working. It hurts so much that he wants to hit something, or shout, or… John drinks, instead. 

And the truth is, John could deal with the bad sex, if Sherlock would just touch him. Morning kisses, and sinking into each other’s arms, sleeping tangled together, the presence of him, at least. 

But Sherlock isn’t there. He doesn’t exist like that. 

 

-

 

John wakes up to his alarm. He’s lying on top of his bed, still dressed, and wearing one shoe. He has a headache the size of a continent. His stomach lurches as he gets up. 

Sherlock’s nowhere to be seen. 

John takes a dizzy shower, three painkillers and a glass of water, and goes to work. 

He hears nothing from Sherlock all day. John doesn’t think about it. Tries not to. Tries to see his boring patients with their minor complaints, and not think of what Sherlock looks like when he’s coming. The faint disgust on his face. 

Does Sherlock even _want_ this?

John gets to stitch up a laceration in the afternoon, and he’s glad of it. The bloody, gaping wound slowly turns into a neat row of stitches under his gloved hands. It’s something he can fix, at least. Something he can do. He still has a headache. Nearly falls asleep in his office. 

John comes home that night feeling guilt like an awkward prickle in his chest. 

Sherlock’s not there. 

John goes into Sherlock’s bedroom, to Mrs. Hudson’s. But nothing. 

John sits down. Gets up again. Makes dinner, eventually. Watches TV. The guilt graduates to giant, rolling waves, so eventually John texts Sherlock, feeling like an arse. “Where are you? JW” 

He doesn’t get a reply straight away, and fine, yeah, he gets it. Sherlock’s angry. 

John texts Greg. “Case on? JW” 

Greg answers, “Yes, or there was, we caught the son, he confessed.” 

John looks at it. Right, so now Sherlock took a case without him as well? Great. 

John doesn’t go to sleep yet though. He expects Sherlock to burst in, and he’s ready to have a fight. _No, I don’t want to marry you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care, all right?_ He sighs. Tries to read. Then goes right back to thinking about what to say. 

John eventually goes to bed, but he can’t sleep. He texts Mycroft, who’s up a lot at night anyway. “Do you know where Sherlock is? JW” 

Mycroft does answer within minutes. “Sherlock is here, asleep in my guestroom. MH” 

Oh. So Sherlock has left him, then? Is that it? John looks at the phone. His finger lingers over the call button. He needs to know. 

Mycroft answers, “Yes?” 

“Is he all right?” 

There’s a shuffle as Mycroft moves something around, and then Violet’s muffled ‘uuuu-tttt-bbbb’. She’s babbling constantly now. Apparently also at two AM. The sound stops - Mycroft probably gave her a dummy, she’s good at taking it and plopping it into her own mouth now. 

Mycroft’s voice comes back. “That would depend on your definition of the words.” 

John can feel guilt claw at him again. But no, he didn’t do anything wrong here. John didn’t push Sherlock, no matter how much he wanted to. Jesus, it’s been three months and they haven’t gone any further than a couple of hand jobs and kissing, and honestly, what adult even does that? What adult relationship goes like that? Which it’s not, a relationship. It never worked, never went anywhere, it failed. And John hates himself for it. 

When he doesn’t answer, Mycroft says, a bit gentler, “He will be.” 

John breathes. There’s nothing more, and he hates that even more than the preaching, to be honest. So he says, “Tell me.”

“What do you wish to hear?” Violet cries, a short cry, and then Mycroft moves. Handing her the dummy again, John assumes. She’s also very good at spitting it out on purpose and then making them pick it up. 

“What you want to say.” _What do I do? I don’t have a clue here, so tell me._

Mycroft hesitates. “I am not certain that it is my place to, John.”

“Yeah, and we all know how you care about that.” 

Mycroft sounds mildly annoyed, “You will never find someone as committed to your happiness as Sherlock is, and your insistence on sexual intercourse is rather crass, John. Instead you might want to ask yourself what he wants, and provide it for him.” 

John almost agrees. But the problem is, “What does he want?” 

Mycroft sighs. There’s a moment of silence. “I imagine that it is _love_ that Sherlock desires.” 

John loves Sherlock. It’s obvious. Sherlock knows that, he used it against him constantly. Stupid John, always comes when he calls. John, overly committed. John, too loyal. Give him a bit, and he’ll do anything in the world for you. 

_Give him a hand job and he’ll be ecstatic._

John closes his eyes. Is that it? Does Sherlock just want to be loved back? “I do… um.” _Love him._

Mycroft’s voice sounds compassionate. “You might want to tell him that.” 

John swallows. 

The line stays silent. 

Eventually John says, “Violet okay?” 

Another thing that’s as awkward as it’s nice. Try convincing hundreds of people that John’s not dating Sherlock and that they didn’t adopt a baby between them, when the truth is so close to it that he can almost taste it. And so far away that it seems like some ridiculous idea, like something from an ‘happy ever after’ fantasy.

Mycroft sighs. “Violet is currently not in the mood to sleep.” Mycroft’s speaking to her as well as to him, John can hear it in his voice. 

“Well, tell her that John says to give it a good go.” John says it before he even thinks how silly it is that he’s talking like this to Mycroft. So he adds, “Thanks.” 

Mycroft makes a small sound that hints at disbelief. “Hm.” Then ends the call. 

John texts to Sherlock. “Mycroft told me where you are. Talk tomorrow? JW” 

 

-

 

Another day of work. John pulls three toenails for an elderly diabetic. He gets a kid in, just a couple of months older than Violet, with signs of abuse. He calls it in to social services. If they’ll help at all. 

Then a heavily pregnant omega, male, and that’s rare enough that John smiles at him. 

The patient asks, seemingly taking the smile for an invitation to talk, “Do you have children?”

For a moment, John thinks to say, ‘Yes, an alpha girl, seven months,’ but he doesn’t. “No.” The next question would be whether he’s got a partner, and he could say ‘my boyfriend just asked me to marry him.’ Which is so bizarre, all of it. So John looks at the patient, and says, “No, it’s just me.” 

 

-

 

John goes home feeling like he never dated Sherlock at all. 

Sherlock’s home. Sitting on the sofa, his knees pulled up, arms curled around them. It’s clear that he’s miserable, too. 

It was all a mistake, wasn’t it?

John gives Sherlock a small smile. He _is_ sorry for this. For ever wanting more, for pushing it, because after all that time he still couldn’t leave it alone. John got them into this. It would have been better if he’d never kissed Sherlock at all. Or known what Sherlock looks like naked. What Sherlock’s hands feel like on him. 

So one more for the pile then. Memories John wishes he could take back. Moments he should have done differently. It’s fine, they’ll get over it. They always do, don’t they? John looks at Sherlock, and believes it. That they’ll be okay, after this. 

Sherlock says, quietly, “I can have a heat.” 

John remembers the last one all too well. “You hated your heat.” 

“I can inject myself again, we can do it this weekend.” 

It sounds desperate. A last-ditch effort. John shakes his head. “No, Sherlock.” No, he can’t let him do this. “No. We’re done.” 

Sherlock looks startled. 

John says, gently, “We tried, yeah? We tried, and it’s not working.” _You might as well tell him._ John takes a deep breath, and it’s hard, still. He doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to give Sherlock that one bit more, that one thing left. “I, um, I do love you.” 

John expects to see a flash of pride on Sherlock’s face. A smug smile. Or worse, some sadness, that he can’t love him back. 

But Sherlock seems stricken. 

He didn’t know? How could he ask him to marry him, and not know? John assumed that he did, he always assumed it, it was so clear, _of course_ Sherlock would know. Why does Sherlock think that he puts up with all that crap he pulls? Forgave him, after, and moved back in? Why does he do all the shopping and go on cases and watch Violet and… 

John looks Sherlock in the eye, and says, “I do.” 

Sherlock takes a shivery breath. 

And now for the bit that John knows for sure. “But you can’t return that feeling.” John hesitates. “Or not all of it.” That’s probably more accurate. “And that’s fine.” 

Sherlock looks at him. “John, I’ll do _anything_.” 

Sherlock does care. Probably about as much as it’s possible for him to, John believes that, he does. So he smiles, and says, “You don’t have to. It’s fine. We’re fine.” They’ll go back to how it was, then. Friends. 

Of course the truth is that they’ve never been just friends. Not for John, he fell for Sherlock the second he met him. But they can do this. They can. 

So yes. Good. John can’t look at Sherlock anymore. He feels wrung out. But he does it anyway, asks, “How was the case, then?” 

Back to normal.

 

 

 

 

 


	26. (Sherlock)

 

 

John ended it. 

Sherlock is nauseous. He can feel some emotion stuck in his throat that refuses to dissipate. He failed John. Messed it all up. He should have known that he would. 

He did know. 

Sherlock lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. Perhaps if he would have tried this before, if he had had relationships before, or sex, he could have been better for John. Perhaps then… No, it’s useless. 

John said that he loves him. Sherlock can hear the words pierce his mind. They heat his chest with a painful sort of shame. John _loves_ him, and this is what he did. 

Sherlock can’t stop thinking about it. They walk Violet in the park. It starts to rain, and John curses, then make sure it doesn’t get on Violet. John loves him. They eat Indian take-away, John dips his naan into a korma, and smiles at the taste. John loves him. They watch TV, and Sherlock spoils the plot of the film in the first ten minutes. John leans next to him, and says, “Yeah, bet you a fiver you’re wrong.” Then grins at him. John loves him. 

Sherlock throws the Viagra out, only two pills used. 

John loves him. 

They don’t talk about it again. John seems to want to pretend that everything is normal, so Sherlock does, too. John doesn’t say that he’s going to date someone else, but it’s only a matter of time before John gives his body to someone who can satisfy it better. 

It’s over. 

 

-

 

April brings a series of abnormally sunny days. 

On the street, John’s eyes linger on a young woman. He glances at her legs, behind, and breasts. 

They have a client, alpha, divorced three times. She cries, suddenly leans against John’s shoulder, and John raises an eyebrow and then pats her back. She slips him her number after. 

Sherlock checks John’s phone daily, but John doesn’t call her. Or add the number in his contact list. 

Violet starts to crawl. It’s not so much a crawl as a belly shuffle that involves her left knee, but she’s faster than expected. They have to baby-proof Baker Street when first she pulls the violin down, scratching the veneer, and then gets into a container with a victim’s scalp. 

They install a baby fence that John jokes looks like prison. 

Violet is working on standing up, too, always pushing up on her legs, it makes it hard to change her, or to get her to lie down. She loves dancing, too. Sherlock has seen Mrs. Hudson do it, so he plays songs on his laptop, and he dances with her, Violet with her mouth wide open in a big laugh, making sounds, bending her knees up and down as she copies him. Mycroft catches them at it once and laughs. A real laugh, it’s something that Sherlock hasn’t heard in years. 

They’re still bonding. They never talk about it. Sherlock doesn’t think about it, either. He presses his lips to Mycroft’s neck, he smells him, takes him in, and they’re good again. It’s another thing that just _is_ , now. 

After John breaks up with him, Mycroft asks, carefully, “How are you?” 

And Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. It all went wrong, but John is still here, so he can’t… it was his own fault. Everything that happens from now on is, too. 

When Sherlock looks at John, he feels the same as before. But John said it, he can’t give him what he wants, love him in the way that he wants to be loved. So this is enough. It has to be. 

 

-

 

In May, there’s a serious case, a serial killer targeting teen omega girls, and Sherlock works it. 

It doesn’t seem like much at first, but it drags him in. It gets more and more complicated, and in the end it takes fifteen days of continuous work before they get the killers – a group of betas, that’s why the motive was so hard to determine. 

John uses up his leave. Mrs. Hudson and the nanny work overtime because of it. But they get the killers. Sherlock figures it out, at the very end, when it matters most. Sherlock is clever, and he catches them. 

He crashes, after. He barely ate, barely slept, barely anything. 

When Sherlock’s half-awake again, Mycroft comes by, and Sherlock sleepily bonds with him. Violet opens her arms to him, and Sherlock realises that the whole time, he didn’t think of stopping. 

It’s the first case after being back that has felt real. 

John sleeps for a whole day, too, and then types it up for his blog with a pleased look. Lestrade comes by to update them about the arrests, and stays for a drink. Molly comes over to play with Violet. Mrs. Hudson makes them tea. Mycroft stays for said tea when he’s informed that there is lemon drizzle cake. 

It all becomes a different normal again. 

 

-

 

Coming into summer, John brings an inflatable baby bath home.

They try to get it blown up, passing it between them. The plastic nozzle is wet with John’s spit, and Sherlock takes it between his lips, blows air into it, and realises that he hasn’t thought about John’s kisses in weeks. About the taste of John’s skin. 

Abruptly, he misses it. 

John must see something of it, because he smiles, ruefully. And it’s not fair, right then and there. It’s wrong. Sherlock wants to have married John, to have that ring that proves that this is real. He wanted it to be real. 

But it’s not enough, for John. He’s not enough. 

So Sherlock looks away. 

They get the bath blown up, and it stands there, blue and cheap and smelling of plastic. They fill it with buckets of warm water, some yellow ducks, and put Violet in it. She splashes up a storm, and howls in protest when they take her out after forty-five minutes. 

Sherlock dries her off, and then takes her along to his bed to put her to sleep. That still works best. 

He talks to her often. When John isn’t here, Sherlock tells her about all the great things John’s done. Sometimes, he tells her about his childhood. When John’s listening, too. Now, it’s a simple story about Redbeard. 

Maybe she’ll have a dog someday. Sherlock can’t see Mycroft condoning that, but then who knows, maybe. It’s good for a child to have a dog, Sherlock remembers that. Except that they die. That everything always leaves, and ends. 

John comes into his room after a while, Sherlock doesn’t know why. John lies down on the bed on the other side of Violet, and Sherlock can feel a stab of longing at that. 

Violet makes a “buh buh buh” sound, enthusiastically, and when they don’t reply, starts complaining. John laughs at it. 

John seems happy with her, at least. 

Maybe, it is enough, this.

Maybe.

 

 

 

 

 


	27. (Mycroft)

 

 

Violet’s first word is not ‘father’ or some variation thereof, as Mycroft had somewhat hoped that it would be. Nor is it some shortened version of ‘Sherlock’, or ‘John’, or, god forbid, ‘Nanny’, or ‘Mrs. Hudson.’ No, the first word Violet says is ‘té!’ and what she means is, ‘there!’ 

She points at what she sees, where she wants to be, what she wants to eat, and informs them where it is with varying levels of yelling involved. 

Mycroft is not entirely surprised. 

Violet is wilful, highly determined, confident. And utterly joyous. It is the last that takes Mycroft aback. He does not know what he was like as a young child himself, besides Mummy’s comments about how he was ‘difficult’ and Father’s distant ‘hmm.’ But Mycroft does know how Sherlock was. He vividly remembers Sherlock’s temper tantrums, Sherlock’s intensity, both in his cries and emotion. But despite that, Sherlock could be very sweet, too. Highly naive. Gullible. Easy to hurt. 

But Violet is all joy or anger, and not much in-between. She laughs, loudly and often. She screams, she bangs her fists when she doesn’t get what she wants, and then as soon as she does, she is overflowing with happiness. Mycroft does not entirely know whether it is just a developmental phase, or if it is showing some fundamental of Violet’s personality. He worries about that, and then tries to consider that she is very young still, and that he should not try to project any larger ideas about who she is on her yet. 

Mycroft has not seen the value in getting Violet to socialise with other children so far. To be honest, he had not wanted her to for the germs alone. As well as the general misery of being forced into friendships, which Mycroft remembers only too well from his own younger years. But it might be good for her to start having that experience at an age where at least she will not remember rejection. 

Mycroft discusses it with Sherlock, because he assumes that he might have a different perspective. But at the mention of ‘making friends’, Sherlock holds Violet tighter. 

Even John does not argue for it that much. But it is the nanny who says, “Sir, it is important.” 

So Mycroft gives her permission to take Violet to a twice-weekly baby group, where they will be playing very basic games with other six-month-to-one-year olds and their carers. Mycroft naturally picks the most exclusive group in London, and has someone install several cameras so that he can follow along. He postpones a crucial meeting to watch. 

When he sees the other children arrive, Mycroft is conscious of the fact that these are Violet’s peers. The ones from her social class, who will grow up alongside her, who will influence her, and vice versa. 

Violet is hesitant at first. She nearly cries in the hustle and bustle of the group. She does calm down when they sit down. And then there is music, which she loves, even in these circumstances. Without any prodding she eagerly looks up at the sound, and starts moving her arms and legs. 

It is not Mrs. Hudson alone who has given Violet a passion for terrible music, it is Sherlock as well. Sherlock, to Mycroft’s mild surprise, is absolutely capable of having _fun_ with her. 

And now, when Mycroft sees Violet’s reaction in the group, he is aware that this, too, is an advantage. Violet is familiar with the idea of dancing, she knows it as well as others around her and is twice as enthusiastic. Enough so that the leader of the group showers her with praise. 

Mycroft, again, is aware that this is something that he himself would never have thought to try with her. But Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock did, and this is the result. Before she was born, Mycroft never saw how important it would be for Violet to be raised by multiple people. Now, he is grateful for it. 

Violet even interacts with the other children. She tries to point to them, and then grab their hands and faces. She laughs, and Mycroft closes the feed with some previously unknown fear eased. 

Perhaps she will not have too much difficulty socialising, then. At least, not yet. 

Mycroft wants her to at least feel connected to others. To be able to communicate. A certain degree of solitude comes with intelligence, and with being a Holmes as well, Mycroft knows. Sherlock and himself were raised in such loneliness. 

He does not wish that for his daughter. 

 

-

 

Mycroft goes over to Baker Street, and as soon as he opens the door, Violet’s voice is loud in the air. “Thé!” She sounds pleased. 

“Hello, my dear.” Mycroft feels rather tired. 

Violet raises her arms to him. Mycroft takes her, and asks her, “Did you have an exciting day?” 

Violet drools a string of spit onto his shirt. Still working on those teeth. 

John says, from the sofa, “No, not really. Did you?” 

John makes that joke often enough that it has lost some of its cringeworthiness. Mycroft does not mind it particularly, it is even slightly pleasant to be speaking in such a familial way. He says, “I’m afraid that I will be late tomorrow evening.”

Mycroft can ask the nanny to work overtime, if needed. But John says, “Yeah, that’s fine, we can put her to sleep here.” John smiles at her. “Bye bye, Violet!”

Violet knows how to wave goodbye, and she does so happily. “Ba ba ba ba!”

Mycroft nods at John, and home they go. Where Violet can play some more, and then have a bath and a bottle, then bed, always the same routine. Mycroft sometimes regrets that he is not at home more often during the day. He is not there for the walks, the afternoon snack, the bits in the sunshine. He does not see all there is to see in Violet’s day, and that is already a source of consternation. He does not want to think of what it will be like when she is older, and she will be able to talk to strangers. When she will have to be sent to school. 

He already despises the idea. 

 

-

 

As he thought, the special committee meeting runs late. Mycroft sees the clock slide from eight to nine, and texts Sherlock, discreetly. “As expected, it will be a late evening. M” 

Sherlock replies, “She’s ready to go to sleep. SH” 

A good dozen debates later, with all the small fires put out, Mycroft can feel the seat hurt his back. His muscles have stiffened after sitting for this long. He has a headache. But they are not any nearer to a solution. 

He is here more because he pulls the strings to the words that these people say, than because he has to speak himself. He is paying attention - part of his mind filing away every word and action, every signal for its hidden meaning - but the other part of him is thinking of whether Violet will be confused at going to sleep in Baker Street for a whole night. Whether she wonders where he is. 

Mycroft knows that both John and Sherlock will comfort her, that they will take care of her, but it is not the same as their routine. He wonders about it having a negative effect on her. Whether he should arrange his work differently, or whether it is not a big enough change to warrant worry. Perhaps it is better if she cultivates some flexibility? He is not certain. 

A loud discussion breaks out, and Mycroft pays attention to how each of the members carry the stress. It says a lot about a person’s breaking point, after all. 

It is an exhausting night, and they end up stopping at three AM without an accord. 

Of course, he will have to be back at the office after eight. 

Mycroft feels tired in his car on the ride back to Baker Street. Normally he would be catching up on some odds and ends on his phone, or at the very least keeping informed about the news. But now he looks out of the window, aware that his eyes are burning. 

London is fairly empty at this hour. 

Mycroft wonders about the other men and women who were in there with him. How many will stop at their children’s bedrooms to say a quiet goodnight when they get home tonight? How many will crawl into bed with a sleepy spouse? 

How many will go home to a grand, empty house, the way he did for years? 

Mycroft does not know whether having a child brings happiness. It changes one’s outlook, one’s sense of responsibility entirely, and in that there has been happiness for him. But also a much sharper sense as to what he lacks as an individual. What he does not possess, to give to his child. 

The driver stops at Baker Street. Mycroft says, “A couple of minutes, I imagine.” He does not wait for a reply. 

Mycroft uses his key, and walks up the stairs quietly enough that he does not disturb Mrs. Hudson. Although, if she is on her herbal soothers again, she might be sleeping the sleep of the blissfully medicated. 

Mycroft would settle for any sleep at all, around now. 

He opens the door and walks into the dark living room. Of course, there is no reason for either John or Sherlock to be awake at this hour. Mycroft had thought that perhaps Sherlock might be, since he tends to be an insomniac at times, but it appears that everything is quiet. The door to Sherlock’s bedroom is half-open, throwing a dim column of light onto the floor, so Mycroft walks towards it. 

There is enough light from the street coming through the living room windows. Still, he walks slowly, afraid that he might step onto some forgotten toy and wake them all. 

And then he pushes the door open. 

The image is touching. 

There is a small bedside lamp that illuminates Sherlock’s back. He is curled up on his side, and turned towards the middle of the bed. John is stretched out on the other side. As Mycroft walks closer, he can see Violet between them, covered with a sheet, clutching her cuddly toy in a fist. Her dummy is in her mouth. Sherlock’s hand is on her stomach. And John’s is on the other side of Violet’s body. 

They look like a family. Like a couple with a child. They have separated, Mycroft knows that much, but there is love there, so plainly. 

Mycroft assumes that he never spent a night like this between his parents. He knows for a fact that Sherlock hasn’t. Sherlock spent nights in Mycroft’s own bed, and he was loved, too, of course. But Mycroft looks at them, and he finds the image more meaningful than he could express. No, he does not get to go to bed with a spouse himself. But he has this for his child. 

Maybe he made a sound, or John’s senses somehow tell him that someone is watching him, because John’s eyes open. He sits up in the bed. 

Mycroft wants to take Violet, but then he needs her car seat first. If he can move her gently enough, she might sleep straight through it. 

“Hi.” John whispers. He leaves the bed, and follows Mycroft to the living room.

“Did she fall asleep easily?” 

“Yeah. Or well, after half an hour or so of whining, you know what she’s like.” Mycroft does know. John yawns, and then looks at his watch - the one Mycroft gave him for Christmas, John has been wearing it every day since. “It’s nearly four already.”

“Yes.” Mycroft sighs. “The negotiations are not finished, I’m afraid.” 

John frowns. “You’re going back in the morning then?” 

“I am.” Mycroft will go home, put Violet to sleep, undress, and then he will have approximately two-and-a-half hours of sleep before waking up, dressing again, and feeding her. Then handing her over to the nanny, and leaving for another full day. 

John looks at the bedroom door. “She might not sleep through being moved.” 

That is a dangerous prospect, yes. Mycroft might have to spend the rest of his night listening to her cry. 

“You stay could here?”

Mycroft briefly looks at the sofa. No, his back is much too delicate to sleep there. It’s kind of John, but if Mycroft would attempt that now, he is not optimistic that he would be able to stand in the morning. “No, thank you.”

“Seriously, let her sleep, and the nanny can come and get her in the morning.” John shrugs. “Take my bed?”

Mycroft wants to refuse. But he is tired. And he does see the wisdom in it. John, perhaps seeing that he is considering it, says, “We’re here for a reason, right? You’re exhausted, so... just let her sleep?”

Mycroft nods. Just this once. He eyes John. “Thank you.” 

John yawns again. “You know where my room is?” 

Mycroft has never been there, but he knows the layout of the building, naturally. “Yes.”

“Well, ‘night then.” John goes back to Sherlock’s room. 

Mycroft, feeling somewhat circumspect, texts the driver. “I will stay here tonight, be back at 7.30, this address.” Do other people spend the night at their brother’s flats? They do, surely? Mycroft has never thought it strange when Sherlock sleeps in his house. Quite the opposite really - on the rare occasions that it happens, he quite likes the thought. 

But then, Sherlock never sleeps in his bed. 

Mycroft walks up the next staircase, and opens the only door there to reveal an average bedroom. Mycroft knows that it is John’s from some select details - the pair of shoes standing in the corner, the clothes on a hanger - but there is very little personality to it. No books, or ornaments of any kind. 

The bed is made perfectly. It seems clean, at least. Orderly. 

Mycroft undresses only partially. He puts his jacket on a chair, and his shoes by the bed. He pulls back the covers, and climbs into the bed with a strange sense of intrusion. He has known John for a very long time of course, but it is still strange to realise that he recognises John’s scent here. Mycroft has not smelled another man on his sheets in a very long time. 

Like John himself, John’s bed smells somewhat comforting, deep and masculine. Mycroft inhales it guiltily, aware that on some level, he enjoys it. How very _base_ of him. 

The mattress is terrible, the pillow too low, there is a window at a wrong angle and it is nowhere near the luxury of Mycroft’s own bed.

He falls asleep within minutes.

 

 

 

 

 


	28. (John)

 

 

John didn’t really think about what it must look like to Mycroft – Sherlock, Violet, and himself in a bed. Not until he goes back, and carefully settles into the spot where his body heat still lingers. 

He hadn’t meant to sleep here. Sherlock was recounting the Baskerville case, first for Violet because she tends to fall asleep to the sound of his voice, and then John just... stayed. They were waiting for Mycroft to come home. He must have drifted off. 

Sherlock is lying on his side, sleeping with a faint frown. Violet lies with one arm above her head, the other on Sherlock’s hand. She’s breathing softly. 

John looks at Sherlock, and yeah, it still stings. Almost, right? It’s what they almost had, between them.

But the thing is, the _almost_ doesn’t make what they do have any less good. It doesn’t make the cases less interesting. The cosy evenings in Baker Street any less warm. The opposite, really. Now that the pressure of sex is gone, and they both know it’s just platonic, it’s suddenly a lot easier. Even this, sharing a bed. Or touching. 

Sherlock sometimes leans close again. And John takes it, gratefully. He always does, and he probably will for the rest of his life. But it doesn’t have that expectant tingle anymore. The sheer stress of maybe-this-time. Instead it’s something calm, and sure. 

John actually feels pretty good about deciding not to go there anymore.

And fine, yeah, John doesn’t even want to imagine what it’ll be like when he brings someone home. Sherlock will probably terrify the poor woman with telling her that they almost got married or something like that. But that’s all distant, right now. 

John’s lying here, in the middle of the night, next to the man that he’s loved the most in his entire life. The best that he’s ever known. 

Despite all of what happened, that’s still true. 

 

-

 

John wakes to the sound of a muffled cry. He opens his eyes, blurry - he barely fell asleep, is it morning already? - to see Sherlock trying to grab Violet and quiet her without waking him. 

“It’s fine, I’m awake.”

Violet makes a “rrrr a rrra” sound that sounds entirely too cheerful for, John checks his watch, 6 AM. Great. It’s light out now at least. 

Sherlock sits on the bed, takes her hand and plays with her absently. His dressing gown has slipped off his shoulder. His curls are flat on one side. He suppresses a yawn, and then frowns. “Didn’t Mycroft come to get her?”

John would rather like to pull Sherlock back into bed for a minute or ten. Twenty. But, right, he focuses. “Mycroft’s here, actually.” John blinks. “In my bed.” That seemed like such an easy solution in the middle of the night, but it is kind of weird now. 

Sherlock looks at him with some surprise. 

And yes, note that _John himself is not in said bed_ , Jesus. “He came to get her at four in the morning, he has to get up at seven again, so I figured it was easier if she just says here, and then the nanny can pick her up here at eight?” 

Sherlock nods. “Fine.” He still seems half asleep, too. 

John’s off today. He can have a nap later, when Violet’s gone.

Violet gurgles, and reaches for Sherlock. She, for one, seems pretty pleased at waking up with two people to play with. 

John thinks about it. “I’m surprised that he agreed to sleep here, really.” Mycroft did look exhausted. So is John after having Violet over since yesterday afternoon. He’s not sure how Mycroft does it, really. On very little sleep, he assumes. “You’d think it wouldn’t be posh enough for him.”

John narrowly avoids Violet’s hand as she tries to push it into his mouth. He turns his head, and she traces his cheek with her clammy little fingers instead.

“No, he never sleeps anywhere else.” Sherlock leans down to sniff Violet’s nappy. His face pulls. 

Yeah, John can smell it, too. Not as bad as the time that he had her on his lap and she sort of exploded all over her clothes, though. 

“Doesn’t he ever date, then?”

“Date?”

John had always kind of assumed that Mycroft didn’t. But now he’s curious – is Mycroft like Sherlock in that? “You know, sleep in other people’s beds?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker over him. John doesn’t know why, is it the reference to sleeping in someone else’s bed being dating, or it being about Mycroft? Sherlock lifts Violet. “No.” 

Right then. John rolls to his back, and stretches out while Sherlock takes Violet to the living room to change her. It’s not like he was _suggesting_ it. 

John can almost see it, if he were to get up right now, go upstairs, and crawl into his bed alongside Mycroft. John imagines Mycroft practically levitating out of that bed - it’s funny enough to make him grin. 

Mycroft probably has royalty do him. Or spies, or something. One of his sour-faced underlings. 

Not that John doesn’t like Mycroft. He’s surprisingly okay, really. A lot like Sherlock, even though neither of them would ever admit to it. Dramatic as hell, easily insulted, utterly convinced of his own importance but sort of baffled by the most normal of things. 

John’s heard Mycroft ask Sherlock whether he thinks that a dummy’s potential impact on Violet’s teeth outweighs the comfort she receives from it. Both of them discuss brands of nappies as if they’re matters of national importance. 

And state secrets or cases, one smile from that baby and both of them stop what they’re doing to look at her. 

John can hear Sherlock stumble to the kitchen, and Violet’s annoyed cry, so he sighs, and gets up, too. He can distract her while Sherlock makes the bottle. If they’re lucky it won’t devolve into a complete scream-fest. Sometimes Violet cries so hard about wanting her bottle that once she has it, she doesn’t have breath left to actually drink it, and it’s all hitched sobs and coughs and milk coming out of her nose. 

She doesn’t get it from a stranger, that. 

 

-

 

An hour later, Mycroft comes down the stairs. He looks pretty rumpled. His hair not quite in its usual order, his suit wrinkled. 

John has Violet on his lap while Sherlock is in the shower, and god knows what he looks like himself. Still in his pyjamas. Holding a kid that’s insisting on pulling his shirt. “Morning.”

“Good morning, John. Violet.” Mycroft smiles briefly at the last one. 

Violet turns around at the sound, and reaches out her arms. 

Mycroft comes over to take her. “Hello, my darling.” Violet cuddles briefly to his neck, and Mycroft strokes her back. 

John should be used to hearing that by now, but he’s not. Mycroft Holmes calling anyone _darling_ still sounds like he dreamed the word in there. 

Violet only lets him hold her for a moment before she holds herself as stiff as a board, and tries to push back. She’s not much for the lengthy cuddles anymore, unless she’s sleepy. Mycroft says, over the assault on his arms, “My car will be here in fifteen minutes.” 

“Sure.” That’s fine. “You want a cuppa first?” 

Mycroft tilts his head. “Yes, thank you.” 

John gets up, and switches the kettle on. He can hear Mycroft ask Violet, completely seriously, “Have you had a good night?” 

She doesn’t reply, of course. Other than in that general way where she makes noise to hear her own voice. “Eeee é é!”

John makes three cups, one for Sherlock as well, and then brings them to the living room. Mycroft is sitting on the sofa, Violet in his arms. He looks tired. 

“You really have to go in again?” John hands him the tea. 

Mycroft nods. “Yes, I have other pressing issues to deal with as well.” 

As always, John doesn’t have a clue what those are. Dark, spy stuff, he imagines. Files filled with blackmail. 

John thinks of what Sherlock said before, and says, “Don’t forget to threaten me.” 

“Threaten you?” Mycroft strokes Violet’s hair down. It’s not so much curly as fine and unruly. She needs a cut. 

“Not to tell anyone that you slept in my bed.” John grins. “The great _Mycroft Holmes_ in my bedroom, that’s probably worth something, right? Should have taken pictures.” 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “If you want to blackmail me, you will have to do better than that, John.” 

“Hmm. Next time I’ll send up some prostitutes.”

Mycroft’s smile is small, but obvious. “Amateurish, surely.” 

“Cameras?” That’s what Mycroft likes better, isn’t it? 

“Ah, only useful if something happens.” Mycroft shares a look with him, and sighs. “The daily struggle of a civil servant.” 

“Yeah, right.” John laughs. As if Mycroft’s a civil servant at all. 

Violet thrashes again, so Mycroft lowers her to the ground. He holds her under her armpits, so she can test the strength of her legs. 

Sherlock comes out of the bathroom, still towelling his hair dry. And yawning. “Ahm,” he says as he sees Mycroft. 

John says, “Tea’s on the counter.” Sherlock goes to get it. 

John looks back to Violet, who is bending forwards and backwards, testing out her sea legs. “She’ll be walking soon.” 

“You believe so?” Mycroft looks up, and it’s that same look Sherlock always has when it’s about Violet - is she on schedule? Is she doing it right? The same look every parent gives him. 

“Anywhere between eleven and fifteen months,” John says, and he realises that he’s smiling, too. 

 

-

 

Summer goes by quickly. 

London is shrouded in a drizzling rain and clouds for a couple of weeks, which is when they have cases on, of course. Tramping through mud in Richmond Park, a women’s body dumped there, evidence flushed away by the rain. Sherlock says it’s suicide, but only after they’ve found three suspects with motive. 

Violet doesn’t actually walk at eleven months. Or eleven-and-a-half.

Then, a case of a gun stolen in Manchester, which was used in hold-ups in several restaurants in London. Turns out it wasn’t stolen at all, but supplied, and they weren’t hold-ups as much as a way to enforce some drug connections. 

When the sun finally breaks through again, they take some days off, and take Violet to the park. She develops a fascination for fountains, mainly the kind where she can reach her hands out, and catch the spray. They have to hold her back from bodily throwing herself into the water. 

Half the time when they’re out, they get stopped by someone talking to Violet. Noticing that she seems happy, or telling them that they make a lovely family. John always answers, “We’re just babysitting.” Or, “No, she’s not... ours.” 

Sherlock never bothers to correct any of them. 

 

-

 

John’s thought about dating. 

It’s time, he thinks. It’s time to move on, because if he doesn’t do it now, he never will. He’ll get lulled into this, and he’ll be a bachelor with a non-partner and a non-child forever. 

He makes an online profile, and then doesn’t open it again for a week because they have a case on, and Sherlock is brilliant. Radiant. John is aware that he’s still pathetically ready to jump him. 

After that, well, he’s just not thinking about it. Taking care of Violet is tiring. And his job is shit, really. He’s starting to think of quitting, and finding something more interesting. 

When John does open the website again, he has over a dozen messages. Some who recognise him from his profile picture. Some plain offers for sex. John doesn’t reply to those. Although he doesn’t delete them, either. 

He does write back to two of the more normal sounding women. 

There’s no use in doing nothing, right?

 

 

 

 

 


	29. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock enjoys the summer. The cases feel fresh and exciting, and John follows him on every single one with obvious pleasure, even when he has to take even more time off work. 

Lestrade is clearly glad to have them back on call, and in a bizarrely good mood. He even tries to hug him once. Sherlock lets him, until he whispers into his ear, “It’s good that you and John made up again, Sherlock.” When Lestrade lets go, Sherlock just nods at him, feeling something pulse in his chest. 

Sherlock goes by the morgue for some interesting corpses, and Molly seems flushed, wearing lipstick. A new love, it’s obvious, and Sherlock wonders how people keep that up. To go from one to the next. To open their skin and heart and everything for another human being, and then when it ends, to do it again, and again. 

Sherlock is hopeful for a moment that Molly picked another psychopath, because that’s been ages. 

But no. He looks at her in more detail. Under the lab coat she has a new outfit from a cheap shop. Gained three pounds. The same look as when she claimed that she was having a lot of sex with Tom – why do people even look like that, _besotted_ – but more secure. She’s not as anxiously holding onto this. 

“Serious relationship, less than two months. Beta male, most likely.” Sherlock squints, but no, that’s it. “You’re happy.” 

“Yes, I am.” She says it easily. 

Sherlock can feel a brief stab of jealousy. He’ll never get John to look like that. But he nods. “Good.” 

He can see Molly’s surprised look from the corner of his eye. 

So Sherlock grins, and adds, “Get me a corpse I can open up with a chainsaw?” 

 

-

 

Violet stays the night a couple more times, and John sleeps in Sherlock’s bed for most of them. 

Sherlock loves it. He enjoys every moment of having Violet between them, babbling to herself as she settles down for sleep. Meeting John’s eyes in the half dark. 

They don’t talk about anything important. 

But there is something about lying back, and speaking like that, as if there is nothing but the words between them. Sherlock lays his hand on Violet’s small stomach to calm her, and feels her every deep breath in and out while John smiles over a memory from his childhood.

John is pretending to fall asleep on accident, and Sherlock will never, ever let him know that he knows, because it is glorious to lie there, listening to John’s faint snores. To Violet’s fast breaths, her occasional whine. And then fall asleep himself, with both of them there. Sherlock treasures it. 

Of course, most of those nights, Violet cries and wakes them both up after a couple of hours. Sherlock changes her, and feeds her. Then walks her in circles through the living room when she won’t settle down. 

One time, he takes his violin, and John lies in bed with Violet in his arms while Sherlock plays to them. John looking at him with shining eyes, Violet with a look of fascination. 

Sherlock has never felt so rich. 

And so afraid to lose John. 

He knows that John signed up to a dating site - John doesn’t even bother to delete his internet history. 

Sherlock knows when John goes on a date. Not because John told him, but because he wears his best shirt, cologne, and then checks his watch three times before leaving. 

Sherlock opens John’s email when he’s gone, and reads the conversations. It’s dull. So very dull, some entirely ordinary woman talking about her job and pets and making some bland innuendo. And that’s enough for John, apparently. If only he can have _sex_. 

Sherlock can’t stop thinking about it the whole afternoon, John with some woman. It feels like ants crawling in his stomach, under his skin. He could go to where John is having dinner, and tell him no. Tell him that the woman is a killer, anything. Of course, as far as Sherlock can tell there’s nothing wrong with her at all except a somewhat disturbing penchant for selfies. She tends to update her Instagram account an average of 3.7 times a day. 

When John comes back, Sherlock is ready to burst. But John sits down, and sighs. He doesn’t seem happy. 

John’s eyes linger on his, and then he looks away. 

They don’t talk about it. 

 

-

 

They have a party for Violet’s first birthday. It was John’s idea. 

Sherlock had been afraid that John suggested it just so he could invite a girlfriend, the way he did to their Christmas party such a long time ago. That there would be some woman wanting to hold Violet, and telling them that their flat is quaint, and touching John. But John never mentions inviting anyone else at all. 

Instead, John cleans, and then hangs bunting and balloons in the flat. 

Mrs. Hudson sets the table, and chatters about cake and a candle and how Violet is growing up so fast.

It’s warm enough to open a window, now that it’s late August.

Mycroft arrives perfectly on time, dressed down for the occasion in a light shirt and beige waistcoat, with Violet in a white dress that’s going to look nice for about thirty minutes. 

Molly arrives along with Lestrade. She has a bright bow in her hair, and she’s carrying a pink gift bag. Lestrade has a sheepish smile. Sherlock looks them both over, and knows. _Of course._

Sherlock lets John chat to them, and goes down to Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen. He doesn’t know why it’s hard to breathe, all of a sudden. 

“You all right, dear?” 

She’s piping the birthday cake. ‘Happy Birthday’ in white, and then she has purple for the ‘Violet’ part. 

“Fine.” 

John makes them all sing ‘Happy Birthday’ as Mrs. Hudson brings up the cake with a single candle. Lestrade films it on his phone. 

They’ve been practising blowing out candles with Violet, and she makes a good effort, but it’s John who blows along with her and makes it go out. They give Violet a piece of cake, and she mashes her hands in it, spreads it all over her face and dress. Mycroft twitches. 

John laughs, out loud. 

They take pictures, open presents, and it’s some alien world. It feels as if he is looking in at this, and trying to understand. Sherlock shares a look with Mycroft, and knows that at least in this, they share an experience. He has never in his life been to a children’s birthday party.

 

-

 

The party is already winding down, and wrapping paper and bags are spread over the floor. Violet has destroyed most of them, ripped up the paper and played with the bags with much more vigour than the actual toys. 

Molly is talking to Mycroft, both of them obviously trying but actually they don’t have a thing in common, when Lestrade says, “So, you thinking about number two yet?” 

Mycroft forces a polite smile, and says, “No, I believe one will be more than enough.” 

It’s said idly, but Sherlock’s head snaps up. 

He hadn’t even considered that. Lestrade is right, people do tend to have more than one, don’t they? The thought is intriguing. Sherlock eyes Mycroft. Was he lying? _Is_ he planning a second? 

Mycroft is getting rather old for it, though. 

Sherlock gets up to Google fertility rates for male omegas. He doesn’t even hear them all leave, or the party end. 

Sherlock spends enough time on his laptop that John says, distantly, “What are you working on, then?” But Sherlock doesn’t think to reply until John is long gone. It _could_ be possible, a second. Violet could have a brother or sister. They could have another baby. 

Sherlock can feel it expand in his mind like a bright, brilliant idea.

 

 

 

 

 


	30. (Mycroft)

 

 

The birthday party was as exhausting as anticipated, but John had been quite right in suggesting it - they need to have the tradition of Violet’s birthdays in place for when she is old enough to remember them. Even now, she will later have the pictures of the people who were there, who smiled for her, and played with her, and Mycroft is aware of the importance of that.

Also, Violet obviously enjoyed the attention. She is young enough to be entirely unselfconscious and to want to be the centre of a party, which she undoubtedly was. So in that respect, it was a fine afternoon. 

Even if he had to have ridiculous conversations with Inspector Lestrade, Miss Hooper and Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft assumes it is all part of the duty of parenthood. 

 

\- 

 

There is a matter involving the royal family next. Delicate, naturally. All the more so when one of the children is mentioned as collateral, so Mycroft makes certain that it is managed with the utmost professionalism. The actual threat is minimal, but they increase security regardless. 

After the whole mess is over, and the person in question is detained, there is a small crying Princess Charlotte left in the arms of an uneasy-looking alpha bodyguard. 

Mycroft recognises that cry. He looks for her mother, but the Duchess is dealing with the Secret Service. So Mycroft sighs, reaches out, and takes her. 

He speaks to her, “Hello, my name is Mycroft Holmes, it is a pleasure to meet you.” 

She sobs some more, but also looks at him curiously. 

“What is your name?” 

She doesn’t say. But she does stay in his arms, and slowly quiets down. 

Anthea sidles up to him, and says discreetly, “Parenting skills coming in handy, sir?” 

The Duchess comes in, sees Charlotte in Mycroft’s arms and seems rather surprised, until they have a candid conversation about separation anxiety over tea. Princess Charlotte crawls onto Mycroft’s lap again, and seems entirely comfortable there. 

Anthea throws him looks between mild annoyance and astonishment when Mycroft discusses night time rituals with the Duchess, and how attached they become to their toys. 

On the way back, Anthea asks, “So how is your daughter?” 

It’s the first time that she has asked in a completely non-necessary context. 

Anthea has resented him for choosing to have her, Mycroft knows. 

But Anthea also made certain that Sherlock was there, in the hospital, when it mattered. Mycroft has never thanked her for that invasion of privacy, and she has never mentioned being sorry for it, either. That is how it works, between them. Mycroft knows that he has an ally in her, and it does not need to be said out loud. 

Which is why Mycroft takes his phone, and selects a picture that John has sent him of the birthday party. Violet is on his lap, and both of them are looking somewhere out of the frame with a similar seriousness. 

Mycroft shows it to Anthea, and she smiles, briefly. “She’s like you.” 

In looks, yes. But in personality... “One hopes not entirely.” Mycroft says it with a mild smile. He would wish for Violet to be warmer, and kinder. Better suited to humanity. More capable of happiness. 

Anthea eyes him. “It changed you. Having her.” She says it not as an insult. Although she must have thought it so many times over the last year, right now it is just a comment. 

“I would imagine so.” Mycroft does not need to think about it, because it is not an admission of weakness. It is not a secret, it is simply a fact. He went through the terror of wanting a child, and then the pain and difficulty of receiving one. How could it have not? 

Anthea’s eyes travel over him. She has a look of forced indifference that Mycroft recognises. Whenever one mentioned parenthood, Mycroft was certain that such a concept did not apply to him. That he would never exist in such a context. That the very faint thread of curiosity he felt needed to be suppressed in favour of those topics in which he felt secure. To show interest is to desire a thing, and wishes are dangerous, because one cannot control them. And to wish for a child... it is so very common. And so very dangerous. 

Anthea asks, eventually, speaking without facing him, “Was it worth it, then? Having one?” 

Mycroft does not know the answer to that. Does it depend on how much pain and effort one is prepared to pour into another life? Did he get what he thought he would? He settles on, “I believe no one can tell you.” _And if they do, do not believe them._

She nods, quickly. 

And goes back to her phone. 

 

-

 

The next evening, Sherlock comes by, completely unexpectedly. 

Mycroft is in his library, working, still, when he hears the door open. He checks the clock, it is after eleven, and suppresses the faint worry he always feels when Sherlock comes to him like this. 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft looks him over, but he seems to be in one piece. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Sherlock says, “You’re forty-four.” 

“...Yes?” That can hardly be a revelation to him. Although Sherlock has never once in the last two decades remembered Mycroft’s birthday, surely he knows his own age and can extrapolate from there. “Don’t tell me that that fact holds any surprise to you?” 

“Pregnancy rates decline sharply after forty.” 

Oh, no. Did Sherlock take that conversation at Violet’s birthday party to mean anything more than it did? “That will not be an issue.” Mycroft adds, for clarity, “I am not considering another pregnancy, Sherlock. Not now, or at any time.” He is really quite done. 

“Why not?” Sherlock asks. 

Mycroft honestly has not given it any thought himself - he is too busy with Violet, thinking of her needs, first. He truly does not have time for a second. He says, “Frankly, I do not believe that I have the energy to parent two children.” It is true. “Let alone the desire to go through it again.” 

Sherlock eyes him. “We’ll take the next one for nights as well, along with Violet. We’ll help.” 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft finds it curious that Sherlock has apparently thought about this. “That might seem like a manageable prospect to you now, but trust me, raising a child is much harder than you are imagining.” 

Sherlock frowns. “I _am_ imagining it.” 

Yes, apparently. 

“She could have a brother or sister.” Sherlock sounds almost naive, suggesting that. 

“She could, yes, but she will not.” Surely that isn’t the end of the world, many people grow up without siblings. 

Sherlock has something stubborn in his eyes. “She shouldn’t be alone.” 

_Ah._ Is that it? Mycroft swallows. He wonders, briefly, what their shared childhood was like from Sherlock’s perspective. Can he not imagine a life without a brother? Is that why he would think this to be important for Violet, as well? It is that thought that has Mycroft saying, gently, “She’s hardly alone.” And when Sherlock does not reply, “Violet is much loved. By all of us.” 

There is no doubt about the fact that Sherlock loves her, as well. Is that why he is arguing for this? Mycroft eyes him. 

Sherlock looks at him seriously. “You owe me.” 

What? “I do not owe you _a child_ , Sherlock!” Mycroft tempers his indignation, instead looks at Sherlock, sitting here, trying to bargain with him like this. “Would you even truly want that? Another?” Mycroft is surprised that he would. He cannot really see the attraction for Sherlock in it, another newborn. “Why?” 

Which might have been the wrong thing to say, because Sherlock sighs. Then gets up in a dramatic swirl of coat, and walks out. He slams the door behind him. 

Mycroft is left there, in the library. Feeling quite unsettled by that conversation. 

What did Sherlock think, that he would instantly agree to another child simply because he asked? The thought alone is outrageous. 

Of course, it is exactly what he owes Sherlock. Mycroft quite literally owes Violet’s life to him. But Sherlock cannot actually expect him to pay him back like this? That would be insane. 

Does Sherlock truly believe that Violet would be better off with a sibling? 

Mycroft does remember that he, as well, had thought that having two children seemed better originally. Especially with his long work days in mind, and with the fact that his child would be partially raised by a nanny. So yes, back when he was first planning this, Mycroft had, ideally, wanted two. Or at least he had thought that he might try to get pregnant again if the first was successful. But, of course, reality has proven to be a lot more difficult. 

Mycroft decided near the end of his pregnancy with Violet that he would never go through it again, and he assumed that decision to be final. He examines it now, quickly - was his judgement not sound because of circumstance? Did he overreact because he was hormonal at the time, uncomfortable, and deeply afraid of losing Violet? 

Perhaps. But he still believes it to be non-repeatable. 

Not so much the pregnancy, as difficult as that was. That sacrifice might be worth it. But, looking at it now, it is the weeks and months after a child is born that Mycroft instantly does not wish to ever live through again. To be alone in this house with a newborn that cries unstoppably. 

It was exhausting, incredibly so. His whole body felt hollowed out, and scraped into this new life. He did not have any sense of self left, only the misery of it, the failure of every cry, of every pain of hers that he could not soothe. The terror that he was doing it wrong, that he missed some essential skill or ability to love. The deep, dark truth that he did not always love her. That when he held her, and took care of her, often, he felt nothing at all. 

No, Mycroft does not want to go through that ever again. 

He feels much more stable, and more his former self now, a year after Violet’s birth. But that does not mean that he feels that he could do it again. And the fact that he is even thinking about it now is useless - giving into sentiment after an emotional conversation, nothing more. 

He has decided not to have another child, and Sherlock’s wishes have nothing to do with that. 

 

-

 

The conversation with Sherlock does not leave Mycroft’s mind entirely. It leaves him feeling uneasy, that Sherlock would even think to ask such a thing of him. That Sherlock would argue for a second child as if he believes that he has a say in it. 

The next time Mycroft goes over to Baker Street, he is prepared for another discussion on the topic. To repeat the arguments that he has thought of for himself, and to insist that this is a private issue, one that Sherlock cannot intrude on.

But Sherlock does not ask him. 

Instead, Sherlock takes care of Violet, selflessly. As he has done nearly every single day for the last year now. 

Instead, Sherlock bonds to him. It was necessary once, when it saved Violet’s life, but they are connected like this by choice, now. This is how they exist. As brothers. The one family that either of them cares to have. 

Mycroft deeply loves Sherlock, he has never doubted that fact. But now he can feel it as a sharp sense of guilt, as well as a headache coming on. 

_Oh, Sherlock, what did you ask for..._

 

 

 

 

 


	31. (John)

 

 

John dates.

It takes some getting used to, being back out there. Meeting women, chatting with them. It’s been years. 

John did date while living with Sherlock last time around, or at least in the beginning - Sarah, some others. John had been fresh out of Afghanistan then, horny, and not getting anywhere with Sherlock. It was all pretty simple. Well, except that Sarah nearly got killed. And that they all dumped him. 

He didn’t care much. 

After the first year, John even decided that making the effort wouldn’t combine well with living with Sherlock, and didn’t date at all anymore. 

And then Sherlock died. A year of grieving, and then Mary. John met her by accident. Or not, he found out later, but he didn’t have to try for her. And then everything with Sherlock happened, so really, John hasn’t been on a real date in four years. 

He doesn’t actually remember how this goes, anymore. 

He’s sitting across from a nice beta woman, thirty-eight, divorced, no kids, and John tries to look at her and see anything, any future at all in which she matters. But he can’t. It’s just not there. So he talks, and jokes a bit, and hopes that somehow, she’ll be into him enough to want to take him to her place and have sex. 

It doesn’t happen like that. She’s friendly, but when John moves in to kiss her at the end, she smiles and says, “No, I don’t think so. Do you?” 

John agrees, and goes on to the next. 

Lawyer, forty-one, alpha. Something completely different, but John had been hoping that an alpha, well. She does kiss him back, and promises a second date. But then John has to cancel once because they have a case, and a second time because Violet has a rash and a fever and he doesn’t want to leave Sherlock alone, and she never replies again. 

Next is an omega woman, fifty-three, but John’s not being picky here. She has three grown kids, one grandkid, and they talk about them, mainly. When John checks his phone, and doesn’t swipe the screensaver away fast enough - it’s a picture of Sherlock playing with Violet - she sees, and asks, “Oh, is that your family?” 

John says, “No, it’s my flatmate.” And then, realising that this isn’t going to go anywhere anyway, shows her the picture and says, “But yeah, I suppose.”

He’s not getting laid at all. 

 

-

 

John comes home to Sherlock changing Violet’s nappy. They’re in the bathroom so John can hear Sherlock’s voice. “All clean!” 

Violet’s answering, “Be be be baah!” 

And John sits down and thinks, _this_. This is what he wants, isn’t it?

Sherlock walks out of the bathroom, slightly startled to see him back so soon. Violet smiles broadly and practically jumps out of Sherlock’s arms into his. 

John takes her. “Hello, young lady!” She grins. 

Sherlock scans him, and says, “Bad date?” 

He’s been trying to do that. Either to be supportive, or to remind him that he can deduce how his dates went, John’s not sure. He can see the flicker of sadness in Sherlock’s eyes every time though. “Oh no, we got along.” 

Sherlock turns away. 

“We looked at baby pictures, and then she had to go home because her oldest needed a babysitter.” 

Sherlock looks back, frowns, but doesn’t comment. 

John takes Violet to the sofa, and asks, “Would you like a story?” 

He takes her through the cardboard book about a bear that tries on hats. For about the twentieth time this week. John catches Sherlock’s eye over the book, and wonders what the hell he’s doing, really. He has this to come home to, so is he an idiot to want anything more?

 

-

 

John goes to work. Drains some abscesses. Gets a thirteen-year old omega on suppressants. Explains to a thirty-seven year old that yes, that does get you pregnant, and ma’am, that looks like you’re pretty far along. Treats Epstein-Barr, and two cases of chlamydia. 

The afternoon is anal warts, three colds, one stomach flu, a tetanus shot, and ‘my penis has pus coming out of it.’ John counts down the minutes until he can go. And when he can, he takes his jacket and gets the hell out of there, already thinking of being home. Playing some with Violet. Making dinner, if Sherlock hasn’t. Or ordering in. 

But John rounds the corner, and there is Mycroft. 

Waiting for him. 

It’s been a while, and John thought they were beyond that, now. “You know you could just call me, right? On my phone? Instead of lurking around corners.” 

Mycroft says, “Ah, old habits die hard, John.” 

John smiles. “Enjoy it, do you? Standing outside buildings looking all dramatic?” To be fair, so does Sherlock. It’s probably a family thing. 

Mycroft tilts his head in acknowledgement. “It has a certain charm.” 

John laughs, and starts walking alongside him to the coffee shop. All right, then. “Sherlock texted me, Violet called a goose ‘cowie’ in the park today.” 

“She tends to be oddly unspecific when naming animals.” 

“It’s from the book, right, the one with the farm?” Yet another classic that she’s been wanting to have read to her all the time. 

“Yes, she enjoys the sounds.” Mycroft sighs. “Endlessly, in fact. I have to take it away in the evenings, or she refuses to go to sleep.” 

“Has she ever even seen a cow? A real one?” Not bloody likely, in central London.

“No, I would expect not.” Mycroft seems to consider it for a moment. “Perhaps we can find her a farm of some sort?” 

“We could take her to a petting zoo, but I don’t know about cows, it’s mostly smaller animals, I think? She’d probably love it, though.” 

“Yes.” Mycroft pulls a face. “I imagine they’re _educational_ ?” He orders a double espresso. 

John laughs. “Sherlock and I will do it.” He asks for a latte. 

They sit down. John does have an idea why Mycroft’s here - Sherlock went over to see Mycroft the day after the birthday party. He came home all annoyed, and spent the rest of the evening brooding. “So, Sherlock went over to yours...?” 

Mycroft looks at him. “He did not tell you?”

“No.” No, Sherlock didn’t say anything. Did they have a fight? 

Mycroft eyes him. “Sherlock visited to ask me whether I would have another child.” 

“Did he?” Hah! John had no idea. 

Mycroft has a sip of his coffee, and then says, “He seemed quite taken with the idea.”

“I bet, yeah.” John can see it already, another little one in Baker Street. Even more crying. More of a mess. More smiles, too. Sherlock would love it. For the rest of them though... “But you said no, I’m guessing?” 

“I did.” 

“Hm.” John can’t blame him. Mycroft looks exhausted most of the time, doing it alone. Violet’s more than a handful.

Mycroft hesitates. “She will not necessarily be happier with a sibling.” It’s not put as a question, but it feels like one. 

“No, I guess not.” 

John thinks of Harry. It’s been over two years since he’s even spoken to her, and that was a drunken phone call she made from a bar. Mycroft knows that, probably. He’s never said, but John’s sure that Mycroft has a file on him and his entire family somewhere. 

Obviously Mycroft’s thinking that, too, because he asks, “Would you rather have been an only child?” 

John’s a bit taken aback, but Mycroft asks it in all seriousness, so he thinks about it. “No, I don't think so?” Harry helped him as much as he helped her, at least when they were young. “It was good, not being alone.” 

Mycroft nods. 

But it’s not the same, is it, because John’s parents were shit. “It’s not... It’s nothing like Violet though. She’ll be fine on her own.” She’ll never have to do without anything at all, will she? John looks at Mycroft. Did Sherlock actually manage to make him feel guilty about having only one? It sounds like it. “Really, she’ll be fine. She’s happy.” John’s rarely seen a more loved kid. 

So, Mycroft came to see him to talk about that? Then again, who else would he chat with - Mycroft doesn’t do friends. Or family, really. John wonders if he’s the happy exception by proximity. The only one besides Sherlock that Mycroft can even talk to about any of this. Sherlock would absolutely love it, having two, John is sure. It’s Mycroft who wouldn’t. But is he thinking about it anyway? 

John says, “You know you’d have help, right? If you’d have another one. We’d be here.” 

“Would you, John? Be there?” Mycroft seems to doubt it. 

What? Why not?

“Even if you meet someone else?” 

It’s a pointed question, and John can feel a prickle of annoyance, it wouldn’t be someone _else_ , it would be meeting _someone_. And it’s none of Mycroft’s business if he does. But it is exactly what he’s been asking himself, so, fine. The answer feels steady in his mind, now, and he doesn’t mind telling Mycroft. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d still be there.” Mycroft can know that he means it. “I’m not leaving him.” 

It feels like a final statement. A promise. 

“Or you, I suppose.” Well, that’s weird - “Um. Violet.” John takes a sip of his coffee. Then looks up and says, “And really, if you do have another, I’d be happy about it, too. To have it around. Violet, it’s been... well, a lot better than I... I’d be, yeah, I’d be happy. Just - so you know.”

It’s true. It’s not just Sherlock. John’s gotten used to the crying, and the nappies, and the disruption of it all. Somewhere in the last year he’s grown to love her, too. 

Mycroft looks a little stunned. 

Right. Good. _Nothing else to say, is there?_ “Sherlock was saying that we’ve got a bit of work?”

Mycroft answers quickly, “Yes, there are several sources that have come forward to testify for the defence in the insurance murders. None of them seem too credible as of now, but if you can do some fieldwork that might help matters along.”

John’s only too fucking happy to. “I’ll take the day off tomorrow.” 

 

-

 

Mycroft gives him a ride, and they arrive together at Baker Street. 

Mycroft picks Violet up, but she does not seem particularly interested in seeing him today. Instead, she clings to Sherlock and cries. She does that with all of them occasionally. 

As soon as Mycroft leaves, Sherlock says, “He told you what I asked him.”

“Yeah, he did.” Really, it’s a bit bizarre, isn’t it, asking your brother to have another kid? Then again, none of this has been normal from the moment Sherlock bonded to Mycroft. And the way Mycroft was talking... “I think he’s thinking about it?” 

Sherlock’s face lights up. “I knew it!”

Oh, no. “Don’t hope too much, all right?” John feels a bit strange saying that, but it’s true, Sherlock’s going to think about this and plan it, and it might not happen at all. 

“There’s nothing wrong with some hope, John.” Sherlock seems genuinely pleased. 

And John can feel that sting. Oh, yeah, there is. There’s so much wrong with hoping for something that’s not going to happen. 

He can’t look at Sherlock, for a moment. 

And then finds his voice and says, “Still.” 

John takes his laptop to his room, and checks his profile again. Two more messages that he needs to reply to. A lonely housewife - she claims, anyway - and someone with the nickname ‘mistressofyou’. 

John looks at them, sighs, and starts to reply. He’s got nothing else to do, anyway.

 

 

 

 

 


	32. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock checks John’s computer, and reads John’s emails daily. He follows all of John’s dating efforts. And as a result, he can see him get increasingly sloppy. John writes emails back to these women with stupid typos. He goes from actual dates to meeting them for a quick coffee after work, or in his lunch break. 

And every single time that John comes home with a frown, Sherlock is relieved to know that John isn’t going anywhere yet. But it’s not easy to live with the constant reminders that John is looking for something else. Especially because John actually seems content being home. He seems happy enough to play with Violet, or take care of her. He cooks and cleans, he watches TV, he reads books and the paper and sits next to Sherlock on the sofa. 

Sometimes John sighs and says he’s tired, or he comes home from work looking like it was a long day. But he happily takes days off for cases. It seems like it is going so well. 

It’s only that nagging sense. The never-completely-absent feeling that John needs more. 

Sherlock has thought about what happened between them endlessly, and seeing John fail at dating makes him wonder, should he offer to give John a hand job again? Could they be ‘friends with benefits’, something that Sherlock thinks is a ridiculous concept, but maybe it’ll appeal to John? 

Sherlock wants to have John in his bed every night, and not just when Violet sleeps over. He could even deal with some kisses, if John wants them. If it would make him happy. 

But whenever Sherlock thinks too much on that, it hits that same sore spot again. He would try, give everything, and then John will reject him again. And he is not certain if he can do that. 

But love is like a lesson that they haven’t learned, it just keeps on pressing between them. Existing. Sherlock isn’t sure if John feels it as well, but it is so clear. It seems to live right in his chest. In John’s smiles. In getting up together at 3 AM because Violet is teething. In playing his violin for John. In going on a lengthy stake-out together, and John’s head leaning on his shoulder as he falls asleep, heavy and uncomfortable. Sherlock doesn’t dare to move for the exquisiteness of it. 

It feels as if he’s shouting at John, screaming. _Love_ , John, _love, this is love!_

Sex seems so very small compared to all of that. So very benign and boring. Heats and sex, sex and heats, that’s what turns the world, apparently. Sometimes Sherlock feels flat-out angry at John. John, and his body and urges that are so very important that all the rest doesn’t matter. Why can’t John hold it back? Why can’t he take care of that himself? What does it even matter?! 

Mycroft is no help in it at all, since he agrees that it’s stupid. Mycroft says, “You can always suggest a type of relationship where John is allowed certain indiscretions. Many mixed couples do.” 

And Sherlock has to say, again, “He doesn’t think we’re a couple.” For John, sex is the relationship. 

If it wasn’t, he would call what they have love already. 

If it wasn’t, it would feel real to John, too. 

But it obviously doesn’t.

 

-

 

Sherlock never felt any interest in having children before. He still doesn’t particularly like them, not other people’s children. But the more Sherlock thinks about it, the more he wants it, another baby. Another tiny one strapped to his chest, and Violet walking while holding his hand. Another small person to care for. 

It’s the easiest relationship he’s ever had with someone, being an uncle. Mycroft has always been a powerhouse, impossible to live up to. And John is pain and happiness combined, but Violet… Violet is tiring, but every moment makes sense. If he pays attention - and Sherlock does - he can predict nearly everything she needs. Sherlock can tell when she’s too hot, or too cold. When it’s too loud, or not loud enough. When she’s bored, or hungry, or tired. He is good at this, raising a child. Completely unexpectedly, he is, and the idea fills him with a strange joy. He, never good at people, can raise a child, even Mycroft thinks so. 

He matters in this. 

 

-

 

One thing Sherlock does learn from John’s multiple attempts at dating is the pattern of it. John asks a couple of things about the women’s lives, talks about himself - most of that is copy-paste from previous emails to other women that all say the same, ex-soldier, doctor - and then they meet somewhere. Usually somewhere John can get to easily from his job. 

So Sherlock does better. 

The first time is by accident. They’re waiting for an alpha to leave so they can question her omega, and they end up sitting in a small hipster coffee house. The prices are sort of outrageous, but John sips his artisanal coffee, and says, “This is nice.” 

So Sherlock gets up after a while, and buys John another drink. A piece of cake, as well. He brings two forks so they can share, because he has seen that on TV once. John smiles at it, and eats most of it by himself. Sherlock, observing him from across the vintage sofa, feels that he did this right. 

When the alpha leaves, Sherlock sees but doesn’t tell John, so they sit there for another forty-five minutes, talking and laughing. 

It wasn’t a date, but nearly, Sherlock thinks. 

He checks John’s computer again, and then googles for ideas. And for every date that John has with a new woman in some sad coffee shop or restaurant, Sherlock takes him somewhere better. They go to a brewery, supposedly because there have been reports of a disturbance, but they end up enjoying the beer tasting. They walk back from a case, and ‘accidentally’ pass a food truck that sells the best tamales in London. They spend a day at a country home because there was a suicide there thirty years ago, wander through the gardens, and then have afternoon tea. 

John doesn’t notice that they’re dates, but he seems to like it anyway. He smiles often. He seems happy. 

He doesn’t stop meeting women. 

 

-

 

Violet stands on her own at thirteen months. She starts walking while holding their hands or furniture at fourteen, but she refuses to let go. 

One day, John asks, a strange expression on his face, “You ever wonder who her other dad is? Or mum, I suppose?” 

It’s easy enough to deduce. “A donor. Man, most likely.” Mycroft did always prefer men. “Dead, probably.” That, or the donor doesn’t know, but dead is much more likely. It’s _neater_. 

“Dead!?” John seems disturbed. 

“So that he cannot make a claim on her later.” Sherlock fully agrees. The thought that someone has any claim to Violet would be terrible. “Good idea.”

But John says, frowning, “When she gets older, she’ll want to know who he is!” 

“Why?” 

John shakes his head. “People want to know where they come from. Who her other dad is, it matters.” 

John seems annoyed about it for the rest of the evening. 

 

-

 

They go out with Violet as well.

Walk through the park, and build a pile of leaves. They drop her into it, to her absolute glee. Sherlock slips on some wet grass and mud, and has to have his trousers dry-cleaned afterwards.

They take her to a petting zoo, which is John’s suggestion. Sherlock had no idea that the concept even existed. And then spend the next hour trying to keep her from slapping, squeezing, poking, and otherwise delightedly assaulting every animal there. 

She seems like she had fun, but when Mycroft comes to pick her up that evening, John says, “We’re not doing that again until she’s older. Also, don’t buy her a pet any time soon, she might kill it. _Enthusiastically._ ” 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Noted.” 

Sherlock fully agrees. 

“Do you believe that she is not showing enough empathy towards animals?” Mycroft seems mildly worried. 

Sherlock instantly worries about that as well. He shares a look with Mycroft. It is a known sign in psychopaths. He saw Violet acting like that today, but he hadn’t even thought of that! What if there is something wrong with her? 

But John laughs. He says, “She’s fourteen months old. All toddlers are like that.” 

Mycroft throws him a doubtful look. “You are certain?” 

John nods. “Oh yeah.” Then, “You can worry about it when she’s ten and trying to skin cats, okay? Not before that.” Seeing their looks, he adds, with a smile, “Both of you.” 

 

-

 

Next they take her baby swimming. 

Sherlock found the course online, and, remembering Violet’s love of the small pool, thought that it would be better than the petting zoo. 

He’s surprised that John wants to go along, because of course as soon as they walk into the pool, everyone assumes that they’re there as a couple with their baby. 

Sherlock can see the looks, the smiles, and as always, he finds he secretly luxuriates in them. People are wrong, of course, but it feels like such an attractive idea. That she could be theirs. 

It also is the first time that Sherlock has seen John near-naked in about six months, and he cannot stop glancing at him. 

John’s shoulders. John’s chest. 

Sherlock stands in the pool with Violet’s slight shape clinging to him, getting her used to the sensation of the water lapping at her legs, and looks on while John slowly swims a lap, and then comes back. 

John smiles at both of them, opens his arms to Violet, and Sherlock can feel his stomach flutter. 

Violet splashes and moves her legs in the water. And when they make a game out of passing her between them, she giggles loudly, and screeches at the moment where they nearly let her go. 

It wears her out, too. In the cab home, she falls asleep on John’s chest. 

Sherlock watches the both of them, and wishes so intently that they were _his_ that it hurts.

 

 

 

 

 


	33. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft cannot forget Sherlock’s demand. 

In fact, while he did not even spare it a faint thought until a couple of weeks ago, now he can feel it occupy his mind. The thought of having a second child. 

Deciding whether or not to have Violet took him over two years of careful and intense consideration. But most of that time was spent on facts that, when looking back, did not matter at all. Details, while all that he truly needed to know was how much he would be willing to sacrifice. When the only sufficient answer would have been ‘nearly everything’. 

But now it is an entirely different thought process, because Mycroft knows, completely and intimately, what he would be choosing. 

He has the C-section scar and the collection of stretch marks on his still-loose stomach. The bags under his eyes. The always near-ruined wardrobe. The house that consists of closed doors and baby fences. 

The missed first steps, because there was a national crisis. The naptime rituals that he had no part in devising, because he only sees her like that once a week, if he’s lucky. The texted pictures and videos while he is at work, always a screen away from his child. 

He has Violet. Her smiles. Her eager chatter. Her outstretched arms. Her voice, when she, _finally_ , says, “Fah” and means father. (Notably, the word comes after ‘there,’ ‘bye-bye,’ ‘eat,’ ‘cow,’ and, inexplicably, ‘train.’ But a full week before ‘Ssss’ for Sherlock, and ‘on’ for John.)

Her wild curls, that he tries to comb down every day, and then gives up as a lost cause. Mycroft’s own hair has some well-tamed waves as well, but nothing like hers. 

Her stubborn expression, that - even more so than the hair - reminds him of a young Sherlock so very much. 

Her laugh, and sweet touches, that seem to have come from nowhere but that Mycroft in some vague way credits to Sherlock and John. 

Mycroft loves her with an intensity that he had not thought possible. But he is genuinely not certain whether he can do it all a second time. 

Would he have enough energy left to take care of Violet while being pregnant? Would he need even more help? When there is a newborn, what would that do to Violet? Will he somehow give her less by dividing his attention between her and another, or will he give her more by providing her with a playmate and a connection beyond anything a mere friend could later be? Will she be grateful for the rest of her life to have a sibling? Or unimpressed, even angry, that he, with his limited time and emotional resources, chose to have two? 

Mycroft is aware that for him, personally, both are true. Sherlock has been both a lifelong frustration, and his greatest - and for a long time, only - connection. Of course it will be different for Violet. The age difference will be much smaller and that is bound to change the dynamic between them into a more equal one. 

Violet does not have a single cousin, or anyone her age as family. Mycroft is an older parent, and he is very aware that when he is gone, and when Sherlock is gone, Violet will be completely alone. It is a grim thought, yes, but it is something to consider. 

Mycroft raised some of these questions with John, simply because he wanted someone else’s perspective, and he had assumed that John’s response to the idea would be negative. Instead, Mycroft had been somewhat taken aback by John’s eager reaction. He has seen how much John cares for Violet, of course, and he has seen the brief moments of pain that John has at being childless himself. But still, it was something of a warm surprise to hear John state that would be happy with a second. 

And John’s words, combined with Sherlock’s desire to parent another child… Mycroft feels a faint embarrassment of riches now, compared to what this decision was like three years ago. 

Then, he had assumed that he would be utterly and completely alone. He had not even once imagined that something else was possible. He had taken it as an absolute fact of his life, that he was by himself. As something that could never be changed. 

And now he has a child. And because of it, he has Sherlock, and John. 

And he does owe Sherlock. 

Mycroft is not certain how much weight to give to Sherlock’s and John’s words, but he can feel it having a certain importance in his mind regardless. Another thing he never would have thought possible some years ago, that another’s opinion and wishes would matter at all to him, not simply as a courtesy, but on an emotional level. 

Mycroft feels a curious sense that he wants to give this to them, too. If he were to have a second child, he would do so not only for himself, but for them, as well. 

It is a strange thought. 

 

-

 

When Mycroft goes by to pick Violet up after work, John is in the kitchen, making something that smells like sausages. Sherlock is flipping through a case file. And Violet is colouring, or rather dragging a crayon held in her fist over a piece of paper and the floor equally, and with great violence. 

Sherlock eyes him, and says, low enough that John does not hear, “Can you take her early next Wednesday?” 

Mycroft quickly thinks about his week. Yes, he can, if he shifts his work around somewhat. “Do you have plans?” 

Sherlock’s mouth pulls. He seems pleased. “I’m taking John out to dinner.” 

Oh. Is it a special occasion? Mycroft cannot tell - not a birthday, or the anniversary of their meeting. Which does not mean that they cannot go out to dinner, of course. 

Mycroft, with a look at John, who is still far enough away and bent over the sputtering pan, says “Would you like a reservation somewhere?” Lord knows that there are many restaurants in London where he could get them the best table. 

Many that Mycroft himself has not frequented in over a year, choosing to be home in the evenings with Violet, and to push lunch meetings up to something shorter so he can get more done in a day. Often, he eats a quick salad while sitting at his desk. Mycroft briefly feels a longing for the concept - dining in a restaurant. The clink of the silverware, the smell of a fine wine, the sense of delicacy in the cuisine, of beauty in the ritual. Even to dress in his finest suit and not have to consider that it might be ruined by various child-related stains seems like a distant dream. 

“No.” Sherlock says. “The owner of _La Gavroche_ owes me a favour. We put his cousin’s mother-in-law in jail.” 

Ah. It is a fine restaurant, they serve an exquisite salmon mousse. “Try the ninety-seven Romane Conti, it has a certain depth.” 

“Hm.” Sherlock does not reply further, because John has noticed that Mycroft is here, and smiles from the kitchen.

On the way home, Mycroft impulsively calls the restaurant, and arranges for a bottle to be brought to Sherlock and John’s table when they are dining there next week. 

It is but a small courtesy. 

 

-

 

The next day is Sunday, and Mycroft has a leisurely morning of waking up, along with Violet, at seven. Something that is still rather unheard of, even at nearly fifteen months. Violet does not sleep through the night often. 

Eating with her across from him. She happily munches on some pre-cut pieces of fruit, throwing half of them on the ground and smearing the rest over her face, and in her hair. 

Washing her, dressing her. 

And then there is time. Where any other day Mycroft hands her over to the nanny and goes to work, on Sundays he tries not to. 

The weather is not good enough for a walk, nor does Mycroft have much patience for it. He knows that Violet enjoys going to the park and that Sherlock does it with her near-daily, but he finds it somewhat gauche to push a pram through the gravel along with the rest of London, and pretend to enjoy it. 

Plus, it is raining, cold, and grey outside. 

By noon, Mycroft has already read her the same books multiple times, cleaned up endless spills and messes, changed and washed various body parts of Violet’s, and dealt with tears twice. He wonders at his own patience. How this has become the new normal. 

Oh, he does long for an entirely quiet afternoon with a book and good glass of whisky, absolutely. But he can enjoy this, too. 

To a certain point. 

While she is napping, Mycroft, too, is lying on his bed. Not asleep, but taking a moment of precious relaxation, when John sends, “You want to come round for some tea? JW” 

Mycroft is grateful for the chance to get out of the house with her, so he replies, “Shall I bring dessert? MH”

John sends a smiley emoticon, which is something that Mycroft despises. John knows he does - Sherlock deduced it once while John was in the room. Luckily, Sherlock dislikes them just as much and never uses any, but John sends them purposefully. To both of them. 

Which makes it somewhat amusing, after all. 

Mycroft drives himself, since his driver has the day off. It makes for the annoying situation of him being behind the wheel and Violet in the back of the car, screeching and whining at not seeing him. And not being handed toys, as she usually is when they are in the car together. 

Mycroft picks up a selection of excellent pastries - this is the same bakery that works for the royal family - and takes them over to Baker Street. 

When he walks up, the tea is standing ready. Violet lets herself be carried by Mrs. Hudson, and then gets on her knees and crawls to play with the pile of toys she has here. 

Part of Mycroft wonders at his welcome, since he is here every day of the week already. Granted, only for a couple of minutes at a time usually, but he is. And now on his one day off, he is here again. 

But it is pleasant enough. Sherlock obviously knew that he was invited, and he is in a good enough mood to play them some more complicated music than usual, Bach. John does not love it, and neither does Mrs. Hudson, so Mycroft knows that Sherlock chose it specifically because of his presence. He shows that he has understood by a small nod to Sherlock. 

Violet is much better behaved here than she is at home. 

Most of it is distraction, Mycroft realises, since here she has multiple people around her. And part of it is simply that there is more here that she is allowed to destroy. Mycroft thinks, again, about how to baby-proof more of his own house. There are simply too many precious materials and artefacts to let her anywhere near his library or dining room, but perhaps he can consider changing some things in the hall. 

Especially if he were to have a second. 

Sitting here, Mycroft lets himself imagine it. He looks at John, currently nursing a cup of tea and watching Sherlock with a warm expression. Sherlock, playing the violin with his eyes on John. Mrs. Hudson, with Violet on her lap, attempting to teach her some kind of clapping game. Violet seems fascinated by her hands. 

What it would be like if he were to clear his throat, raise his voice, and say, “To answer your question, Sherlock, yes, I will consider trying to have another child.” 

Mycroft imagines the joy, perhaps from all of them. 

He momentarily longs for it. 

But he knows that he will never make an announcement like it. Mycroft is at a certain age, and it might be very difficult to become pregnant again. _If_ he decides to. 

As Sherlock’s playing ends with a flourish, Mycroft does not say anything, simply tilts his head, and smiles lightly at the treat of the music. 

Mycroft keeps the thought inside, and considers it his own. For now.

 

 

 

 

 


	34. (John)

 

 

Sherlock says that they’re going out to dinner, and when they turn up at La Gavroche, John is surprised first, suspicious second, and then sort of bizarrely pleased. 

It’s nice - more than nice, it’s incredibly posh. Sherlock did tell him to wear a suit, but honestly John’s underdressed for this place, and he knows it. Sherlock isn’t, of course. He wore something new, he’s all gorgeous lines and grace. 

John feels like a cheap date next to him. 

All the way into the starters, John thinks that there’s going to be a suspect eating somewhere. Or that there’s something in the food. Or that there’s some reason, any reason related to work, why they’re here. 

Then Sherlock admits, “The owner owed us a favour.” 

Yes, John remembers that case, but that’s been months. Sherlock never once gave the impression that he wanted to come here. Actually, John thought that he’d barely heard it, but hey, he’s not about to turn down a free meal. Especially when it probably costs more than a month’s rent. The menu doesn’t even have a price on it. 

When a bottle of wine arrives at the table, John assumes that it’s from the owner, but Sherlock frowns. John thinks for a second that this must be it, some unknown villain in the crowd, taunting them through great wine. 

And then the waiter says, “It comes with the message, ‘It does not always need to be a first birthday party, one appreciates a bit more style. Enjoy your night.’ Um, no name.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

John smiles. Yeah, that’s Mycroft for you. 

They try the wine. John doesn’t know much about the vintage, but it is good, he supposes. They haven’t had a nice bottle of wine together in a while. 

The food’s incredible, too, although it all feels way too fancy. Sherlock is sitting across from him, looking like a million pounds. And for a second, John’s nervous - Jesus, Sherlock’s not going to propose again, is he? He didn’t somehow get the idea that he needed to get it right, and then John would say yes? 

What’s worse is that for a dangerous little second... John considers it. 

No, of course he couldn’t say yes. That would be stupid. They’re not even together. But it feels like something close to it, anyway. It always has, but even more lately. And it’s true, what John told Mycroft, that he plans to stay right here, with Sherlock. 

But they don’t talk about anything unusual. 

Sherlock does bring up, over the main course, “If Mycroft has another baby...” 

“I’m not sure he wants to, Sherlock.” Mycroft hasn’t mentioned it again at all, so John doesn’t know what’s going on there. 

“I said we would take it overnight, too. From the beginning.” Sherlock looks at him, and asks, awkwardly, “Would you agree with that?” 

John can tell it’s important to him by the strangely polite way in which he’s broaching this, and suddenly he wonders if this – the whole diner - is repayment for that night by the South Bank. Back then John was tired, and frustrated, and he didn’t recognise Sherlock or himself anymore. Violet was tiny and screaming all the time, and John yelled at him that he didn’t know that they were going to end up raising someone else’s kid. 

Did Sherlock take him to dinner, because he’s already apologising in advance? For the missed cases, the poop explosions, and milk all over his shirt? The crying, and whining, and all of it - just in case it does happen? 

Of course that argument was about much more than just Violet. It was about John not getting it, any of it. Sherlock. Why on earth he acted like that. But he gets it now, John thinks, looking at him. John’s surprised he’s asking, really, he assumed in a vague way that that would be the case anyway, but yeah. “All right. Good, that’s fine by me.” 

Sherlock rewards him with a small, electrifying grin.

And John feels something warm in his chest, seeing Sherlock like this, across from him. Planning for a kid that doesn’t even exist yet. John raises his glass, feeling a bit indulgent, and says, “Bring on the sleepless nights, then.” 

Sherlock clinks his glass to his. “To sleepless nights.” He looks so serious saying that, that John feels a squeeze of desire. 

Out of all the things they got wrong between them in the last so many years, all the pain, helping raise Violet is something that they’ve gotten right, isn’t it? Sherlock is amazing with her. He’s patient and creative, he’s fun and kind, and he adores her. And John loves Sherlock, he’s always going to love him. Sherlock is always going to come first, he knows that. 

John misses sex, sure, and he’s not ready to give that up for life, but it’s starting to feel like it, anyway. Like he gave it up. John doesn’t want to get it on with any of the women he meets, not really. In theory, yes. In reality, he’d rather be home. 

They might as well be married, to be honest. 

Sherlock says, still somewhat serious, “Thank you, John.” 

It’s not for Sherlock alone though, is it? “I’d want it, too, you know. Violet has been great, so another one, I want it too.” Strange how it’s getting easier to say that out loud. _Let’s have another baby, honey, let’s do this._ It feels insane. But it’s not, not at all. 

Sherlock’s smile has a soft side that John feels he could fall into, and never let go. 

John’s almost expecting Sherlock not to bother with dessert, but they linger over the food. Then sit close together in the cab home. He could almost forget that it wasn’t a date. 

Except that instead of going home to fuck, Sherlock stays awake and starts some experiment, and John lies alone in his cold bed. 

There’s that. 

 

-

 

The next day John does have an actual date. Thirty-four year old omega woman, pretty, a bit mousy. Her picture reminds him of Molly, actually, which isn’t his type usually but she seemed nice enough. 

And, to be honest, John’s getting tired of it, anyway. Dating. He’s thinking of Sherlock, as he always is, and he’s not paying attention when she asks about kids. He smiles and says, “Oh yeah, I’d love to.” 

She eyes him. “On your profile you said that you were looking for something casual?”

John has to rephrase it. “Yes.” He looks at her. “I am. Definitely.” He laughs a little. “ It’s just…” He thinks about a way to save it, but he can’t, so he runs with the truth, “Um, me and my flatmate,” _friend, partner,_ “we’re helping raise his brother’s kid. We’re thinking of having another one, actually, another baby.” 

She frowns. “It would be yours?”

“No.” That reminds John of when Sherlock had just found out, god, ages ago. Sherlock had assumed that Violet was his. It was horrible at the time, but now it’s sort of funny. John can still remember Mycroft’s face, he was properly insulted. “No, not mine.”

“I’m sorry. You should know I am childfree, I really don’t want any.” 

“That’s fine.” John smiles. 

“It’s just because I’m an omega, and people constantly assume that I want them, you know?” 

“Sure.” John considers Mycroft. Did people constantly assume that he wanted kids, too? John somehow doubts it. He thinks Mycroft might have really shocked some people, turning up pregnant. It had shocked him, too. 

“So you do want that?” 

She seems insistent. John says, “I did, once. Didn’t work out.” _Oh, she got pregnant all right, but the kid wasn’t mine._ “So this is, with my flatmate, it’s the next best thing, right?” John smiles charmingly, he always thought that women liked that, anyway. A man who loves kids? Who’s all settled down? 

But she smiles back at him, warily. “You seem happy with that.”

John realises his mistake as her face sets. 

She gets up, and says, “Good luck with your family, John.” 

 

-

 

John goes home. 

It’s like he can’t stop talking about it. Thinking about it. 

There’s been dozens of times in the park alone that he‘s had to tell someone that Violet’s not his. People just assume, everywhere they go. 

Instead Violet has some alpha dad somewhere that she’ll never know, anonymous donor number whatever. Mycroft will probably use the same guy for the next kid, too, won’t he? A dead donor, Sherlock said. It seems unfair. Cruel, actually, for Violet, that when she grows up and asks about it, everyone will tell her it doesn’t matter. Or for the next one, same thing. 

There’s nothing he can do about that, though. 

Except... Well. 

As soon as he thinks it, it weighs on John’s mind. Heavy, strange. He’s not sure if he’s completely gone insane, or if it makes perfect sense, what he’s thinking. 

John waits until Friday night. He gives himself that long to back out of it, and then cancels a date last minute, and takes the tube to Mycroft’s instead. 

John walks up to Mycroft’s house. In all these years he’s only been here once, when Violet was just born. She was so tiny then, John remembers holding her, that small package of a person. How she fit against his chest. 

Actually, thinking of Violet, John’s not sure about ringing the doorbell. He might wake her. He takes his phone and calls Mycroft instead. 

“Yes?” Mycroft sounds only somewhat surprised. It’s not that strange for him to call. 

“I’m outside your door, actually?” John feels a bit weird saying it. Maybe he should have called ahead. “I didn’t want to ring the doorbell and wake Violet up, so…”

“I will be there in a moment.” 

The line dies, and John waits. 

Mycroft opens the door. “John, good evening.” Even though it’s Friday evening and he’s at home, Mycroft’s still in a full suit, even shoes. John always assumed that as soon as he got home he would change into a dressing gown or something, but apparently not. 

“If it’s a bad time, I can…” John looks away. He doesn’t know how busy Mycroft is, after all. Maybe he’s got a date in there too, who knows. He doesn’t seem to be too annoyed that he’s here, at least.

But Mycroft says, “Come in.” 

Walking into the house, John’s again impressed by how grand it really is. It’s a mansion. In central London. 

Mycroft turns to him. “Would you like a drink?” 

“Sure, yeah.” 

He leads him to the library again, just as John remembers from last time. It’s a full library, ladders on the walls and endless expensive-looking books. There’s already a fire burning, and there is a pile of files on one wingback chair next to the fireplace. 

“You don’t ever stop working, do you?”

Mycroft pours him something amber from a glass decanter, and hands it to him. He doesn’t have any himself, John sees. 

“The work is never done, one can only try to stay on top of it.” Mycroft smiles, removes the files, and takes a seat in his chair.

There’s something nice about seeing him in his natural habitat. In Baker Street, Mycroft always seems slightly uneasy, he always moves as if he knows that he does not belong there. But here, he leans back in his chair with the ease of habit. John thinks he was right to come here instead of talking to him somewhere else. 

He starts with, “Dinner was nice.” 

“I would imagine so.” Mycroft gets a brief look of longing at the thought. 

“Bit fancy for me, mind, but the wine was great.” 

“Ah.” Mycroft smiles, pleased at the compliment. “It is a personal favourite of mine. A bit dry, perhaps, but it accompanies the salmon mousse exquisitely.” 

“...yes.”

There’s a brief pause, and John has a drink. It’s whisky, sharp and full, the good stuff. 

He looks at Mycroft, and feels a shiver of tension. _What are you even thinking, Watson, he’s gonna laugh you out of the room._

But no. John takes in Mycroft’s familiar face, his expression. They know each other well enough now that at least he’s not going to be livid, John thinks. He hopes not, anyway. 

“Is there something I can do for you, John?” 

Mycroft asks it easily, and he means it, John knows, he always does. He’s always prepared to pull a string here, arrange something there. But that’s not what this is about. 

“Um.” _All right, come on._ “You don’t have to tell me whether you’ve decided on,” John looks towards Mycroft’s stomach, maybe he’s already pregnant, could be, “having a second one, but it is about that.”

Mycroft nods. 

John has no idea what Mycroft’s thinking. Probably that he’s daring a lot to even bring it up. “If you would, would you use the same... donor?”

Mycroft takes a moment, and then says, visibly uncomfortable discussing it, “I would imagine so, yes.” 

“So it’s Violet’s brother or sister.”

“Yes.” 

There’s a bit of a silence, and Mycroft eyes him. John knows it’s weird, coming here, they don’t exactly have that sort of a relationship, do they? But he’s come here to say something, and he will. John takes a slow breath. Then admits, “I wanted one. A kid.” 

God, he hates that feeling. Saying it. But he did. When Mary was pregnant, he was terrified, but he wanted that baby. He wanted a daughter. 

There is a flash of sympathy in Mycroft’s eyes. “I am aware of that, John.”

John pushes the feeling away. “But I’m not having any, so Violet was... well, she _is_ , the closest thing. To having one, for me.” A family.

Mycroft nods, briefly. 

“Which is why I thought...” _Right, here we go._

Mycroft looks at him patiently. He hasn’t guessed it yet, John’s surprised. 

“...I’d offer.” John swallows. “To be the... the donor. For the next one. If you’d consider it.” 

Mycroft’s eyes flicker over him, probably deciding whether he’s serious. He doesn’t look as shocked as John imagined, but then Mycroft’s got a career in lying, so he’s probably managing to hide most of it. 

He doesn’t seem amused, though. 

John has a sip of his drink. He can feel the whisky tingle on his lips. Strange, it doesn’t feel like it’s possibly one of the most important conversations of his life. He feels outside of it, now. He told Mycroft, and that’s it. 

Mycroft shifts on his chair. John imagines he’s thinking of a nice way to say ‘no fucking way and get out of my library,’ but what Mycroft does say, rather sharply, is, “You would want to be the father?” 

That’s not an outright no, so it’s already more than he expected, to be honest. “No.” No, John thought about that, and he doesn’t. “Not any real… custody, or any of that. I’d want to be a donor, and for the rest, like I’m to Violet.” 

Mycroft is still looking him over. “...I have to admit that I am surprised, John.” 

John fights a completely inappropriate grin. “Good to know that that’s possible.” 

Mycroft reflects his smile briefly, but he seems to be overwhelmed by whatever else he’s thinking. “It is... an unusual proposition.” 

Yeah. It absolutely is. 

John takes another sip of his drink. The fire crackles. He can’t believe that he didn’t get an absolute no. He’s still expecting it, somehow. He glances at Mycroft. 

“I am going to need to need to consider this.” Mycroft looks serious. It also sounds like a dismissal. 

“Of course, yeah.” John gets up. He can’t go up against whatever genius Mycroft has picked, probably. 

Mycroft nods, politely, but is obviously already in thought. 

John lets himself out.

 

 

 

 

 


	35. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock watched John throughout the dinner. He seemed to enjoy it. The wine flushed John’s cheeks, making his smiles all soft and kind. 

Sherlock looked at John feeling as if he wanted the world to see that someone that amazing was there with him, and only him. Hoping that it was a much better date than any of the others John goes on. 

That it matters, somehow, in some way. 

The next time Violet sleeps over, John is there in his bed, too. Without question. John turns in his sleep, and lies with his back to them, softly snoring. In the middle of the night, Sherlock leans over Violet and moves close enough to smell him. The skin of John’s neck is briefly there, under his lips. Sherlock inhales him, and presses a soft stutter of a kiss to his neck. _John._

It makes his heart pound.

 

-

 

Sherlock takes Violet to Regent’s Park, in her wrap, still, even though she is getting a bit heavy to carry like that, it’s easier. He lets her walk once they’re there. 

It’s cold, and he has her wrapped up well in her coat and scarf and gloves, she’s like a little ball of fabric walking around. 

Her cheeks are bright red by the time they come home again. John is already there. John takes her, and starts taking off her scarf. “Did you see the ducks?” 

“Es,” she agrees. 

John eyes him, and smiles as his fingers work on her zipper. “And the fountain?” 

“Es.” She seems distracted by her toys, and John has to hold her back as he takes her coat off. 

“And did you see the cows?” 

She seems distracted for a moment more, and then turns back, and hesitates. “Es.” 

“No, we didn’t see any cows, Violet.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t confuse her.”

She escapes and toddles over to her corner of toys, and John laughs. “It’s a bit early for deductive reasoning, if she wants to see cows, why not, right?” 

Sherlock feeds her dinner, some potatoes and mashed vegetables, while John starts their food for tonight. Mycroft shows up in the middle of it, looking windswept as well. And Sherlock wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t already looking at John, but he can see a small hesitation, and then a moment of warmth between them when John says hello. 

Sherlock frowns. 

The thought lodges in his stomach. Mycroft doesn’t have much sex, but he does do it, and John sees him regularly, technically an attraction could be possible… No. Sherlock tells himself that he is wrong. 

That can’t be true. 

 

-

 

He takes a case, a simple breaking and entering at a countess’ castle, made only slightly more entertaining by the fact that there was nothing stolen except a single picture. 

It takes a couple of days of checking the family history, and trying to trace it back far enough. John helping, with books spread over Baker Street, a visit to the archives and then a train to Cambridge. It turns out that the countess’ grandfather was hiding a secret or two, and that her father had been an illegitimate child. 

In the end, it doesn’t have much of a solution, except that they do find who stole it and why, and the countess gets to meet her distant relatives, yes, great and all that. 

Even John seems a little underwhelmed. 

 

-

 

It’s the first of December and Christmas is creeping up in the streets. There are lights everywhere. Mrs. Hudson goes on a baking spree, and 221b suddenly smells like nutmeg, ginger and cloves. John hums carols without realising that he is doing it. 

They’re sitting on the sofa, Violet just left, and the living room is warm. Sherlock is reading up on Victorian murder trials, when John says, “Sherlock?” He sounds odd. “We need to, um, talk.”

Sherlock is instantly wary. He scans John, signs of stress, some fatigue, not happiness. Does he have a girlfriend? Is that it? “Why?” 

John grins. Then his face regains some tension. “I asked Mycroft... Well, I’m pretty sure he’ll say no.” John laughs a little. “But.” He visibly steels himself. “If he has another one?”

He will, Sherlock is almost sure of it. 

“I offered to, um, to be his donor.”

Sherlock’s mind tilts over the idea for a bright moment. _Why would John...?_ And then it rushes though his brain. _John_ , the donor. A baby of John’s, here, with them. John’s smile on a child’s face. John saying, ‘yes, she’s mine’ when they’re out. A baby that smells both like Sherlock’s and John’s... The repercussions pile up the longer he thinks on it - it feels like puzzle pieces slotting together.

“Sherlock?” John asks carefully. 

Sherlock blinks, and looks at him. “That’s brilliant.” 

John seems startled, and then laughs. “Wow. Well, I wasn’t expecting that?” He breathes. “Thought you’d be upset, first.”

“Why would I be _upset_ ?” It’s perfect! It’s everything that he wanted but didn’t think that could happen, it’s… Sherlock can feel it overwhelm him. John having a baby here, _theirs_. 

“Mycroft’s your brother, so the thought of me and him…” John’s mouth pulls awkwardly. “For the record, I just offered to be the donor, right? Not, um, the natural way.” 

Sherlock waves it away. “Yes, fine.” He wasn’t even thinking about that. What matters is, “It would be yours.” 

John briefly chokes something back. “Yeah. Yeah, it would be mine.”

Sherlock looks at John, and he wants to take him in his arms, or kiss him, one of those large gestures, it’s welling up in his chest. _John._ Sherlock wants to bond with him, pull John close and make his scent go over him, claim him, profess his love and admiration and surprise at the sheer magnificence of his person sitting here. John. Only Sherlock doesn’t know for sure how to do that. How to make it what John wants. So he hesitates. 

John just smiles. But Sherlock knows that there should be something in this moment. He tries to say something instead then, but he’s not sure what. _I never thought that you would even think this, John. You are amazing._

John says, “It’s not… I don’t think he’ll say yes, really? But I, well. Last chance, and all that.” 

“He’ll say yes.” Easy. 

“Sherlock…” John frowns. “You don’t have to push him on this, okay? It’s his choice, not yours.” 

“Hm.” It doesn’t matter what John says, Sherlock will convince Mycroft. 

Sherlock eyes John. For him, he’ll do it all. 

 

-

 

Sherlock thinks on it all night, and all morning. When the nanny brings Violet, John takes her, and says, “Fine, go bother him, I know you want to.”

Sherlock leaves. It’s easy to deduce which office Mycroft’s in today, with the elections coming up. 

When Sherlock walks in, Mycroft’s phone is on his desk, and there is a chair standing ready. John texted him he was coming, then. 

Mycroft looks up, and says, “Have you quite recovered from the shock?” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He sits down, and leans back in the chair. “You should do it.” Obviously. 

Mycroft smiles, faintly. “And you have thought this through, in the mere… oh, twenty hours since you found out?” 

John always wanted children - John always wanted the normal things. But now he’s asking for it in this way, and Sherlock can give this to him. Mycroft can. “John wants it.”

Mycroft sighs. “I am aware of John’s reasons. But that does not mean that this is a good idea, Sherlock. Having a child is not simply a practical endeavour.” He eyes him. “There would be emotion involved in doing this. On all of our parts, I imagine.” 

Of course there would be, that’s why it makes sense! 

“Think about it, Sherlock, are you prepared to see me pregnant with John’s child? Do want to raise a child that looks like us both, and not yourself?” 

Mycroft thinks that he’ll be jealous? How stupid. Why should he be? The baby will be like Violet, it will smell like it’s his, feel like it’s his. And the thought that it would be John’s as well, it’s perfect. “Yes.” 

“You cannot use a child to connect you. It would not change anything between yourself and John.” 

Change, no. Or yes, Sherlock thinks - John will never leave his child. John would never do that. 

Sherlock opens his mouth, but Mycroft says, “I promise you that I will consider your opinion. But the decision is mine.” He eyes Sherlock, sternly.

“Fine.” Sherlock gets up. 

He could argue, but he doesn’t, not arguing will have a greater effect on Mycroft. It will prove he’s being _rational_. So instead, Sherlock says, “Violet ate part of her carrots but not all, she likes broccoli better. John’s getting some for tomorrow.” 

Mycroft gives him a brief nod. “I will pick her up around seven.” 

Sherlock leaves, but he takes the long way home. He does think on it. Can he let Mycroft have this? It’s not like he can do it himself, but to let him give that to John? To let John be a father with him? 

It does sting.

 

 

 

 

 


	36. (Mycroft)

 

 

To say that Mycroft was surprised at John’s proposition might have been an understatement. 

Mycroft has rarely been so taken aback. 

_John._ As the father of his child. 

With Violet, Mycroft deliberately never refers to her other half of genetic material. Violet is his and no one else’s, and the thought of the next one not being so… It is a most bizarre idea. 

Mycroft can follow John’s reasoning. He can understand the pain of wanting a child and not being able to have one. But that does not mean that this is a sensible idea in any way, shape, or form. It offers a near-endless chain of complications, of thoughts, considerations, fears and doubts. 

Mycroft was convinced of John’s commitment to this when he was simply asking him to ascertain whether John would be around for the infancy of another child - all he had wanted to know then was John’s idea of permanence for the next three or so years. 

But this proposal would be for life. 

Oh, John says that he only wants to be the donor, but if it is an open secret - which Mycroft assumes it very much would be - there would be little difference between donor and father here. Especially if the child is at Baker Street as often as Violet is. 

Mycroft, whenever he examines it, feels simply stunned. 

Sherlock, he assumes, did not think it through and advocated for it because John asked, but that does offer another perspective as well. Can he do this for Sherlock? Truly? Would it harm Sherlock, or benefit him? 

Mycroft has grown to respect John throughout the years, even be somewhat fond of him. He trusts John with Violet without doubt, but it is a whole different question to consider John as a father for his child. There is intelligence to consider, genetics - John is a beta, naturally. There are characteristics to think about. 

The more he thinks on it, the more elements Mycroft can see to this question. Would it be a benefit to Violet to have a full sibling instead? Is it inviting too much complication? Or is it adding in an extra layer of security, if something were to happen to him, that there is another biological parent? 

Mycroft has never even considered having a child with someone else, and the difference is considerable. When making this decision just days ago, he had thought that that child would be for Sherlock and John as well, and that was true then, but only in a somewhat thin and sentimental way. 

This would make it a rather unavoidable reality. 

Mycroft had been prepared to do the first, he had thought it a positive in making this decision, even. But there are very serious questions about the second. 

 

-

 

Mycroft makes an appointment with the same specialist who helped conceive Violet. 

There is too much hope going around, too much wishing for a thing that might simply never happen. There is no use in planning all this, or even thinking on it, if it is impossible. 

Mycroft has a glass of Macallan ‘39 right before he leaves. He rolls the warm taste around in his mouth while he works on some forms, both as a specific indulgence, and as a reminder of what he would be missing if he were to get pregnant again. 

When walking into the doctor’s office and seeing the familiar model of a child _in utero_ , currently decorated with frankly horrid Christmas decorations, Mycroft is reminded of the first time he was ever here. 

He does not feel the same deep inadequacy he did then. Then, he had been intensely uncomfortable with even admitting that he thought about a child. Then, he had felt anger at the thought that he needed this doctor’s approval for doing anything with his own body. He had nearly turned back and called it a folly, never to be thought of again. 

Now, Mycroft is thinking of disappointment, yes, but also of possibility. 

His thoughts are on expectation, and the idea that perhaps he has already received all he ever will. Perhaps one healthy daughter is all that one can expect from life, and he will not have more. He would almost be at peace with it, if he were to hear it now. But then there is the small but persistent string of hope, too. For more. 

His doctor is the utmost fertility expert in the UK, naturally. Bharat Mehta, twenty years of experience. Mycroft got an appointment in a day. She knows his case well. 

“Mister Holmes.” She smiles at him. “How is little Violet?” 

“Very well, thank you.” Mycroft has never been comfortable with small talk. More so, he does not see the point. They are both busy people, surely.

She realises, and says, “So, you are here today for...?”

Isn’t it obvious? “A test of my blood hormone levels, and physical evaluation, with an eye towards having a second child.” 

“I see.” She starts taking notes. 

Mycroft remembers the tests well from last time, and they are not any less invasive. Unfamiliar, gloved hands touch him. His blood is drawn, his body is scrutinised. He lies down on a paper-covered bench, crackling under his back as he moves. The doctor turns the sonogram machine on, puts the cold liquid on his bared stomach, and Mycroft, bizarrely, can feel a trace of panic. 

When he nearly lost Violet, he had been calm, he remembers. Collected. He had been certain of his fate, and ready to accept it. He breathes through it.

Now, the screen shows a faint white shape: his uterus, his ovaries. 

“Have you experienced a heat since your pregnancy?”

“I have not.” Mycroft was not expecting to. He has taken heat suppressants for the last two decades, and he has not had a natural heat since university, which, even then, he thought severely impractical. 

The screen measures something, and then clicks off. 

Mycroft cleans his stomach, and goes to sit across from the doctor. _Tell me, then._

She eyes him, and says, “I will tell you the same thing I did last time. No guarantees.” 

Mycroft is aware.

“But I have to believe that there is a decent chance.” She waits, a serious expression on her face. “Yes, we’re two years further, and your age is even more of a factor now. But you did have a successful pregnancy in-between, we have enough harvested eggs from the previous cycles, and you bonded as well. I see no reason not to try.” 

Mycroft nods, choosing not to feel the impact of those words, not yet, but he can feel them press on him, and evoke a ghost of joy. “Hormone therapy, and then implantation?”

“Yes, and as soon as possible, if I were you.” 

“And if I want to use a different donor?”

She is professional enough not to seem at all surprised by the question. “The donor’s sperm would need to get tested. Genetic profile as well, if you want that again.” 

Mycroft swallows. “I would. As extensive as possible.” 

“All right.” She faces her computer, and starts clicking. “You can combine it. You can start on the hormone therapy, and the donor can get tested. If you start now I can get you in for implantation…” She checks the computer’s calendar. “On the sixth of January?” 

The sixth is Sherlock’s birthday - Mycroft cannot help but note the coincidence. It’s little over a month away. “That would work, yes.” 

“Lydia can write you a prescription for the injections.”

Mycroft nods. “Thank you.”

She shakes his hand with a professional smile and a “Good luck.” 

Mycroft walks out holding the forms. He allows himself to feel relief for just a moment. _No reason not to try._ He was not aware of how much he had assumed that he could not do this until this very moment. How much he had thought that his body would betray him after all. That it would be too old to function, worn and no longer useful. 

And then he reasons it away, the brief happiness. 

There is no reason to be complacent or joyful about this until the moment that he is holding a second child in his arms. The process to get there will be long, frustrating and difficult. He knows it. 

But Mycroft remembers the feeling of being pregnant with Violet. Her moving under his skin. The flutter in his stomach when she kicked. The deep, warm sense of having a child under his heart, his own. 

Bringing her home from the hospital, so very small and fragile.

He will most likely have months of this, several cycles before he even is pregnant. 

If he ever will be. 

 

-

 

Mycroft spends a series of hours deep in thought at the Diogenes Club. 

Weighing every pro and con, trying to shift through the complicated thoughts of duty to this non-existing child, to Violet, and to Sherlock. 

The next time he is over at Baker Street, he self-consciously takes a seat, and waits until Mrs. Hudson goes downstairs, before he says, “I would like to discuss something with both of you.” 

John immediately sits up, wary. Sherlock shifts Violet on his lap to look at him. 

Mycroft sighs. He does not particularly like moments like this, being forced to have _conversations_. _Why does all of this involve so much discussion?_ “About your request, John.” Mycroft’s eyes connect with John’s. “I have given it serious consideration, and if you are still certain…”

John nods quickly. “I am, yeah. I am.” 

“Then before any decision can be made there are tests. Among which is the donation itself, along with blood tests for genetic screening.” 

Mycroft observes John carefully. 

John swallows. “Yeah, of course.” 

“If you would agree to that, you will need to make an appointment.” Mycroft feels a faint flutter of discomfort. “Also, and I will let you research the particulars, but be aware that there is a certain limitation on when you are allowed to engage in intercourse or masturbate beforehand.” 

John does not seem bothered by the idea, but Sherlock’s reaction is rather more intense. “He isn’t allowed to have sex?!” Sherlock sounds worried. 

John laughs. “For a couple of days, Sherlock.” John shares a look with him. “Not exactly a major sacrifice.” 

Mycroft nods. John seems prepared to go forward with this, but Mycroft feels discomfort, again, at how large a decision this truly is. He will not make light of it. 

Mycroft prepares to leave now that he has said what he wanted to. He takes Violet from Sherlock’s lap, and wraps her up in her coat. She is cheerily waving, “Bye-bye! Bye-bye!” 

John gets up as well to help collect her things. Mycroft feels like he should perhaps say something more to mark this moment, or to ensure that John is comfortable with it, but what exactly the etiquette for this is, Mycroft has no idea. John looks at him, and hesitates for a fraction of a second as well. Mycroft feels it, and feels it tug between them. Some slight nervousness in the face of something much greater. 

He would be connected to John for life, Mycroft is aware. Outside of Sherlock’s involvement, this would be between them, personally. 

Mycroft lifts Violet, who shouts another “Bye-bye!” and then throws herself towards John, so he can kiss her on the cheek. Violet insists on cuddling Sherlock as well before they leave. 

Mycroft walks out, feeling as if something monumental has shifted. 

A faint thread, connecting them all.

 

 

 

 

 


	37. (John)

 

 

When Mycroft closes the door behind him - clumsily, as he is carrying a squirming Violet and her changing bag - John looks at Sherlock. 

“Can you pinch me?”

Sherlock luckily hasn’t deleted that from his mind palace, because he chuckles and doesn’t actually pinch him. Instead he says, “It’ll work, John.” 

“It might.” John doesn’t want to celebrate yet. God knows what’s in his genes. 

John remembers the toast he made with Sherlock. _Bring on the sleepless nights._ He looks at Sherlock, and feels like he wants to pull him close. Instead it’s just a smile, as it always is. But it feels too large, too big of a moment not to touch him. Dammit, he might have a kid at the end of this! So John tries, just this once. “Can I touch you?” 

Sherlock eyes him, and says, very seriously, “Yes.” 

So John steps close, awkwardly - it always is between them - and wraps his arms around Sherlock. 

Sherlock even pulls him in, and for a second, everything’s perfect. John can smell Sherlock, deeply male and alpha. He can feel his heart beat in his chest, fast. He can look up, just a bit, and see the curve of Sherlock’s lips. The look of fascination in Sherlock’s eyes, the warmth. Sherlock says, “John...” and it sounds a bit choked. 

John laughs, feeling something raw at the emotion of it. Oh, all the times he’s wanted to hug him. 

So he holds on, and rests his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder. Says into Sherlock’s chest, “Yeah well, you can endure it every once in a while, can’t you?” 

Sherlock says, “I can.”

John can hear the sincerity in it, and it clouds his eyes. 

“I might be a dad.” He tests it out for credibility. 

Sherlock leans back to look at him, and his eyes are a bit shiny, too, but he smiles. And it feels so different from the last time around. From the wedding, from that horrible dance where John felt that every step away from Sherlock, while holding his beautiful bride, was wrong, so very wrong. “Yes.” 

John has to let go, because otherwise he’ll never do it. Otherwise, he’ll stay here in Sherlock’s arms in the middle of the living room, choked up and unwilling to ever let go. Otherwise, he’ll drag Sherlock down for a kiss, and whisper how much he wants this. How very much it still pulses under his skin every single day. _Sherlock, how I want you, you have no idea._

John lets go. 

Sherlock’s arms only fall away slowly. 

John goes to sit down, and it flows away, the moment and the hard emotion. But some of it lingers, too, between them. 

Forever, probably. 

 

-

 

John makes an appointment, and then doesn’t masturbate for three days. Doctor’s orders. 

He’s still learning to live with the idea, that he’s the person who asked _Mycroft_ if he could be the father of his kid. Sometimes it drifts away for a bit, and it doesn’t seem all that real, just something he considered, once. And then it’s right there again, when John looks at Violet, and tries to imagine what his kid would look like. Or he sees himself in the mirror, with some grey hair now, bags under his eyes, and it feels right that he tried. Otherwise, he’ll be holding the next one, wishing that it was his, and knowing that he’d never even asked. He would have regretted not doing it, wouldn’t he?

Now, he put his cards out there, and it’s up to Mycroft. 

And all those evenings when John watched Sherlock with a newborn Violet and it broke his heart that she wasn’t his, that she wasn’t Mary’s kid, that it wasn’t what he’d hoped for and expected and needed… it’s all kind of laughing at him now. 

It still wouldn’t be like what he had with Mary. But fuck that. This is better.

John never knew they were going to get pregnant in the first place, it was an accident – a rather large one on Mary’s part, but hey, he didn’t know that at the time. While this, no one told him to offer this to Mycroft. 

John is choosing to do this. It makes a world of difference. 

 

-

 

Sherlock comes along to the appointment. 

John didn’t consider that strange at all, until they’re in the office, and the doctor walks in. John recognises her from when Mycroft was in the hospital with Violet, and it seems that she knows who they are, too. She looks at them both, explains the ‘donation’ he’ll have to make, and John wonders what on earth she’s thinking. That he and Sherlock are a couple, obviously, but she also knows that Sherlock is Mycroft’s bonded, _and_ Mycroft’s brother. 

John has the suspicion that this is one of those cases doctors talk about behind closed doors. That they wonder whether they all share a bed at night or something like that. 

_As if_ , right? Reality is a whole lot more boring than that. 

They draw nine collection tubes of blood. John provides a urine sample. Then there’s a full physical. An extensive questionnaire that goes all the way back to his great-grandparents, and their causes of death and diseases. John doesn’t know half of it, but - creepily, hilariously - Sherlock does. Turns out he did some quick research into the Watson family tree. John would almost be annoyed, except he can only barely remember his grandparents, and he’s quite sure he never even knew that his Granddad Larry died from a stroke, or that his Great-Aunt Margaret had diabetes. 

And after all of that, he gets handed a small plastic cup. 

The doctor says, “You and your partner can go through there. Wash your hands first. There is reading material available as well, and when you are finished, you can hand the sample over to the reception desk.” 

She thinks that they’re going to get busy in there together. John realises it at the same moment Sherlock does, and they share a look - shock, amusement - but don’t say anything. It’s a tiny cubicle with a chair and some magazines. A discreet sink, and a box of tissues. They both stand by the door.

It’s the most un-sexy place John has ever planned a wank, pretty much. But hey, that’s the deal here. 

John looks at Sherlock, and smiles wryly. “Well, I’ll be busy then?” 

Sherlock nods, still seeming more amused than bothered by the whole situation, and part of John wants to suggest, ‘Hey, if you’re here anyway, why don’t you...’ But of course he doesn’t. John goes in, and closes the door. 

He washes his hands, aware that Sherlock is still right there. Waiting for him to jack off. 

That probably shouldn’t be a turn-on. 

But the whole situation, the bright lights, the smell of hospital and the idea of how many have been in here before him... Well, John needs something good to think of. And he is very aware that Sherlock can probably hear his every move. He raises his voice, “You can still hear me, can’t you?”

There’s a short pause. A rustle of clothes. Sherlock’s voice, “Yes.” Then, surprisingly thoughtful, “I can go wait outside?” 

He doesn’t have to. John opens his trousers, and pushes his pants down. “No, stay.” He feels a bit daring, saying that. His cock sort of agrees, seeing how it grows to half-mast in his hand. 

Or not. No, Sherlock probably hates this. John’s about to say, ‘If you’d rather go…’ when Sherlock takes an audible breath, and says, “Would you like me to talk to you?” 

John shivers, he can’t help it. Sherlock must be standing right next to the door, he sounds close. John tries to keep his tone light, and jokes, “Got a sexy repertoire in mind, do you?” 

“...No.” 

Sherlock sounds like he’s about to run away after all, so John quickly tells him, “There’s a magazine here called ‘Omegas in Heat.’” He tries to sound like he’s joking. “‘Knots and Whips.’ Oh, and one that’s all fake breasts.” 

It helps, Sherlock laughs, lowly. The sound makes John’s stomach tingle. 

“Do people look at that?”

“I guess so.” John’s never been that much for porn magazines. Or not after the age of fifteen, anyway. “I’d rather imagine, really.”

There’s a brief pause. 

John wonders if Sherlock can hear the movement of his hand, back and forth. He’s getting hard, for sure. 

Sherlock breathes in, and then asks, “You imagine…?” 

There’s something so naïve about it. Does Sherlock really not know that John wanks to the thought of him? All the time? How can it be that he doesn’t know, after all that happened? Of course, yeah, Sherlock doesn’t feel that. Sherlock doesn’t get it. 

John wants to ask him, ‘What do _you_ imagine?’ because he still has no idea what sex is even like for Sherlock. 

Or, ‘Come in here?’ But this is already a good thing - John’s curious where this will go, getting off while talking to Sherlock. Once in a lifetime opportunity here. Plus, he doesn’t have to think of exactly why he’s doing this. So he says, “I suppose I would imagine another person there with me?” 

Sherlock’s voice is a low sound, “You imagine someone stroking you?” 

John can feel his knees buckle at the tone, _Jesus_. “Yes.” Yeah, that’s the idea. He slows it down, runs his cock through the ring of his fingers and thumb. “That my hand isn’t mine, but someone else’s, things like that.” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer. 

He probably doesn’t know what to say, John thinks, so he asks, boldly, “What is the other hand doing? Any ideas?” 

Sherlock’s answer is fast. “Stroking your back. Your shoulders. Your hair.”

John breathes out. 

A breath from Sherlock. 

John tightens his grip, and pulls himself again. “Sherlock.” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, just - anything will do. 

“Kiss your neck.” Sherlock says it as if he’s embarrassed, but he _is_ saying it. 

“Sherlock…” John looks at the door. The _damn_ door that they’re not opening, because it all works in fantasy, but not in reality, does it? 

“Stroke you faster.”

John speeds it up. _Don’t even think of opening that door and pulling him in here, snogging him senseless. Don’t._

“There are arms around you.” 

Sherlock doesn’t sound fully comfortable, but he’s committed to it regardless, and John doesn’t mind - at this point Sherlock could read him the phone book and he’d get off on it. “Yeah?”

“Lips pressed to your neck.” 

John thrusts into his hand. “Biting me?” 

He only realises he’s slipped up when there’s a short inhale. They’d never do this, they’d never, they can’t. 

Sherlock’s reply makes him shiver. “Yes.” 

John quickly fumbles to get the cup ready. A couple long strokes, then hard, tight, and yes, he’s coming. He aims into the small plastic cup. Some of it drips on his hand instead. 

Sherlock, two paces from him on the other side of the door, is silent. It took John under five minutes to come, which should be sad, but it was remarkably good, actually. 

John pulls the last drops out. Yeah, it was pretty great. 

He closes the cup. He makes sure the lid is on well, washes his hands again, and pulls his pants back up. Zips his trousers. 

Then opens the door. Sherlock is still standing right there, all coat and a flush on his face. 

John wants to ask Sherlock why he did that, why he bothered, but Sherlock starts walking. 

John feels a bit weird walking out of that little room and then discreetly placing a cup of his sperm onto the reception desk. The woman behind it seems unimpressed, though. She just fills out a form, sticks a sticker with a bar code on there, and says, “The doctor will call you with the results within ten days.” 

John walks through the long hospital corridor, Sherlock next to him. He has no idea whether that was all right, for Sherlock. Whether it registered as anything at all to him. John tries, “Well, that was fun.” 

Sherlock’s lips push together in a small smile - relieved, John thinks. “Was it?”

“Oh, definitely.” John glances at him, something hot in his stomach, still. 

Sherlock’s eyes linger on his, not fully sure, searching a bit. John looks back. _You know, we do have doors at home…_

Even in the cab home, he’s not fully over it. Especially not when Sherlock almost-accidentally brushes against his hand, and John, feeling brave, takes it. 

_Fuck_ normal, right? 

He just masturbated into a cup, he can do this. 

Sherlock doesn’t look at him as John tangles their fingers, but he holds on just as much. There’s still a faint blush on his cheeks, John can tell. 

And maybe…

God, _could they?_

 

 

 

 

 


	38. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock didn’t mean to have sex with John in a hospital. 

It wasn’t really sex, but it was something near to it, certainly. Sherlock was there as John’s partner, as someone who is allowed close by. And then when John spoke to him... 

It felt good to know that John was enjoying it. To hear the faint movement of John’s hand. The change in John’s voice from embarrassment, to intrigue, to enjoyment. The tense pitch of pleasure when he came. It was wonderful to hear, and to be a part of it. 

But not as good as John holding his hand afterwards. 

Sherlock could hardly look at him for the rolling feeling of joy in his stomach, having John do that. John didn’t do anything more - just, when their eyes connected - smiled. 

That was enough. 

It plays between them that night. John’s smiles are a little flirty, and John’s eyes linger on his, even when Sherlock knows that he’s not meant to see. 

Sherlock isn’t sure what to do with it. It feels so new all over again. Terrifying, because he’ll mess it up, some way or other. But he wants… something. 

So Sherlock encourages it. He lets his own gaze trail over John, so that John will notice. Spreads out long and lazy on the sofa, so John can have a glimpse of his body. Sherlock isn’t sure if that will do anything at all, but when he sees the heat in John’s eyes he feels vindicated. If he does it right this time, then maybe… 

Sherlock doesn’t know what exactly he’s hoping for. 

When John goes to bed, it’s with obvious reluctance. He spends a couple of moments straightening things, just generally being around, still. 

Sherlock very nearly asks him to come to his bed, but the moment passes, and he lets him go. Then he spends the next ten minutes trying to figure out what he should have said. But the fact is that if he does say that, ask John to his bed, John will assume that there will be sex involved. And then they will be right back to everything that went wrong the last time. 

 

-

 

Sherlock spends the night thinking on it. 

He makes sure he’s up when John gets breakfast and leaves for work, just to see him. 

John smiles at him again. Sleepily, now, but there is something even nicer about it. In putting a cup of tea on the table for him right as John reaches for the jam. In sitting across from him, holding a cup of his own, and letting it linger between them. 

John opens his mouth, clearly wants to say something, but then thinks better of it and says, “I have to go to work.” With something of reluctance, again. 

Sherlock, however, is ready for it. He stands up, takes John’s jacket, and helps him into it. Which makes John give him a bit of a strange look, and then laugh. “All right…” 

But Sherlock isn’t done. When John is in his jacket, he leans down and, very carefully, kisses John on the cheek. It’s just a press of lips, more the thought of a kiss than a real one, but John stills, and looks at him with sudden love and fear warring in his eyes. 

Sherlock says, “Have a good day.” 

And John breathes. Then nods, and gives him a small smile. “You, too.” 

In the doorway, he turns around, and says, “See you tonight,” with something hopeful in his voice. 

 

-

 

It went well enough that Sherlock can barely think of anything else for the rest of the day. 

Mrs. Hudson comes by to hoover, and Sherlock nearly talks to her, but he can already imagine what she’ll say - that John definitely loves him, that of course he’d be happy with anything. Which isn’t true. 

Sherlock sits down, and then jumps up again, something nervous crawling in his stomach. How can he do this right? Because he wants to, he desperately wants to.

The nanny is there at two with Violet, and Sherlock takes her, grateful for the distraction. Violet has her fruit. They take their usual route through the park, although it’s cold, so they don’t linger outside as long as they usually would. 

Sherlock is feeding her dinner when John comes home. She’s making a mess of it, spitting half of it out again and laughing at it. John smiles at them, says, “Hello, Violet!” 

And she immediately reaches her arms out. “’On!” 

“No, you’re eating right now?” John checks with him. 

Sherlock shrugs. “You might as well.” 

John takes her out of her high chair, cleans her face, and plays with her for a bit. Sherlock can feel his heart hammering, aware that they’ll be talking about it soon. They have to. When Mycroft arrives, Sherlock dresses Violet quickly, and practically pushes her into his arms. “Yes, bye.” 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, and says, lowly, worried, “Did the appointment not go well?” 

“It was fine.” 

Mycroft is still looking him over, obviously ready to question what the problem is. So Sherlock gives in, and quickly whispers, “John made the donation, they thought we were together. I need to talk to him, _please?_ ”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows, and with a quick, “Good evening, John,” leaves them alone. 

And then it’s time. 

John sits on the sofa, and Sherlock sits on his chair. He’s thinking of a way to raise the topic, when John says, “Sherlock, yesterday, when I, um...” John grins at the memory, and then sobers. “Did you _like_ that?”

Sherlock feels a knot in his throat. _The truth, tell him the truth this time._ “I was not aroused, John.” 

“No... right.” John breathes out. “But you liked it? Doing it?” John is asking carefully.

“Yes.” He did. “I liked it.” 

John’s eyes meet his, and Sherlock is sure that John can see what he wants, that John can see all of it. “You want to make another go of it?”

“Yes.” The word feels obvious, but still it scrapes his throat, it nearly hurts to say. 

It’s not a conclusion, because John goes on, “And if we did, what would that be like?”

Sherlock feels a stab of panic. _I don’t know, John, after all that I still don’t know what I can give you._

“I’m serious, what would it be, to you? Us, together?”

Sherlock says what he knows to be the most important thing for John, “You can have sex. With other people.”

John seems surprised. “...All right.” He hesitates. “But then what’s the difference? What is it you want to do with me that’s even different than…?”

_I want us to be a couple, John. I want you to hold my hand. To tell people. For it to be real!_ It’s overwhelming, what Sherlock wants. A thousand little gestures and signs. 

But John says, “Practically?” 

Sherlock knows that the first thing he’d want is, “Sleep in my bed. Every night.” Is that too sentimental? Too strange, for John? 

But John smiles. “I’d like that.” He takes a deep breath, and says, “Okay, yeah. Let’s start there?”

“Yes.” Sherlock smiles back. He can feel the happiness of it, this went well, but it’s drowned by fear, too. He cannot mess this up. 

Not again.

 

-

 

That night, John comes to bed with him. 

He wears pyjamas, and so does Sherlock. It is exactly the way it is when Violet is here. But it isn’t, as well. Sherlock goes to bed, John brushes his teeth, and then comes to his room. John closes the door. He crawls under the covers. Looks at him. 

John reaches out his hand, and Sherlock cautiously takes it. John’s fingers are warm in his. 

John leans close in a rustle of covers, and Sherlock is already braced for what will come next, touching and grabbing and kissing. But John aims a kiss on his cheek, something small and quick. Then pulls away, and says, “Good night.” 

John’s voice sounds a little amused, as if he thinks it’s silly, what he just did, but Sherlock’s cheek is still burning with the memory of John’s lips. It’s lovely. He says, “Good night, John.” 

John lets go of his hand, gets comfortable, and goes to sleep. 

It’s that simple. 

 

-

 

John sleeps in Sherlock’s bed the next night, as well. And the next. 

Sherlock gives him a kiss before he goes to work in the mornings, and John gives him one back at night. 

When they’re in the park with Violet, John takes his arm, and Sherlock is amazed at how it warms his whole body, to walk with John this close to him. To match their paces as they walk. To see John’s smile directed at him. Violet wiggles against his chest until he lets her walk on her own, and they hold her hands to let her walk between them. 

It’s great.

It takes three days before Mycroft looks at him meaningfully, and says, “I assume congratulations are in order?” 

Sherlock wonders how he knows. Then again, Mycroft always can tell. He admits, “We have an open relationship.” _It’s not real, to John, this. Or maybe it is. Maybe it will be._

Mycroft nods. “Well, I do believe it to be a quite truthful way to live.” He smiles, briefly. “I do wish you two the best of luck together, Sherlock.” 

 

-

 

Christmas is coming soon, and John decorates the flat. Less so than last year because back then Violet was a baby, and now she is walking she gets everywhere. They’ve already lost three Christmas decorations to her chubby little hands on day one. 

Mrs. Hudson bakes cookies with Violet, which mainly consists of making sure Violet doesn’t eat the dough. 

John plays some Christmas songs. His feet are cold at night against Sherlock’s. 

When Mycroft comes over on Friday, Sherlock bonds with him. It is routine now, between them. John is sitting on the sofa, Violet is playing on the floor, and Mycroft feels easy under his lips, right. 

And then, Sherlock can suddenly smell a hint of it. 

Warm, sweet, it’s deeply familiar straight away. Sherlock pulls back, looks at Mycroft, and says, “You’re on hormones.”

Mycroft seems surprised. “You can smell that already?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock has been so used to this, to bonding, to it being just _them_ , their scent, that it feels like an intrusion. “It’s…” He pulls his nose. “New.” 

Mycroft seems slightly awkward. “Well, my apologies.” 

John has looked up, and he is following along as well. 

Mycroft says, “I started the injections this Monday.” To get his hormone levels up for implantation - Sherlock read about it, It’s much more invasive than he had imagined. 

“Are you okay with doing them yourself?” John sounds worried. 

Mycroft frowns. “Naturally. It takes some skill to self-inject, but it is not difficult.” 

“Well, if you ever need help, you know we will, right?” John seems sincere. 

“We do both know how to use a needle.” Sherlock says it before he’s thought it through. John will think it’s funny, but Mycroft... 

Mycroft’s mouth pulls. “Yes... I am aware of that, Sherlock.” 

Mycroft never would have smiled at that a couple of years ago, it would have been a deeply disappointed look. _Sherlock - the junkie. Sherlock - my useless brother._

But not now. 

Of course, Sherlock is already feeling rather wonderful, so he looks at Mycroft, and says, stepping away, “You are invited to Christmas Eve.”

John glances up with mild surprise. They haven’t discussed it, really, but Sherlock knows that it’s fine. 

Mycroft just nods, but his eyes travel over him, briefly. “We would be happy to.” 

Then a phone goes, and John stills, then breathes again when it’s Sherlock’s. 

Soon, they’ll know.

 

 

 

 

 


	39. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft is getting used to the routine of hormone treatment again. 

Every morning when he wakes, he takes his temperature, and writes it down. Then he prepares an injection, drawing the liquid carefully so it contains no air bubbles. He wipes a small patch of skin on his stomach or buttocks with a disinfectant wipe, and injects into his fatty tissue. It is not difficult. Before John asked, Mycroft had never thought that someone would need help with such a thing. 

The hormones will bring him to an early, chemical heat, and then the implantation will take place. 

The sixth of January. It feels like a date of importance in his mind, now, even though he is very aware that it is only the first attempt, and that there is but a small chance that it will work on the first try. 

And of course there is the matter of John’s results, first. 

After John’s agreement to go through with it, Mycroft has felt somewhat more distant from the idea. If there is something found in the genetic screening, he cannot use John as a donor. Of course, if there is not, that is a different matter. 

Yet another thing to consider is the fact that Sherlock and John have apparently found it within themselves to redefine their relationship as in fact being one again. Mycroft cannot truly see the difference with what it was, except that Sherlock has that same high-stress look he remembers from last time. 

John seems calmer about it. Much the same, in fact. 

When Mycroft asks John privately if there was a problem with the donation, John says, “No, it was just…” He laughs a little. “They assumed that Sherlock and I were a couple, and so when they sent us both to the little room to do the, um...” 

Mycroft says, “ _Ah._ ” 

He does not hear the rest of the story, but he can imagine what happened well enough. Mycroft does not laugh about it to John’s face, but he does smile later thinking about it. 

As he remembers from last time, the hormones have a bit of an effect on his mood and body, but it is negligible. 

Work is as stressful as ever, since everyone wishes to take off for the holidays as if the work of governing a country simply stops for two weeks in the middle of winter because they all agree on it. Mycroft despises this period, he truly does. The insistence of merriment and some sort of winter ideal of family and cosiness. The laughable decorations, the lights, the scents, the fake snow - because of course it does not actually snow in London on Christmas. 

It annoys him more than anything. 

Still, when Sherlock invites him over for their small party again, Mycroft says yes. Violet will enjoy it. And as he remembers from last year, it was not entirely horrible. 

Mycroft does spend some time thinking about gifts. The watch he gave John last year has been on John’s wrist every day since Mycroft helped him put it on, so he assumes that he chose it well. It has a band of brown leather, a sturdy exterior, classical without being ornate - Mycroft had thought it would suit John when picking it, and he was right. 

Sherlock, as well, has been attached to his phone all year. 

But what to give them this Christmas? It has been a rather extraordinary year, Mycroft is aware. He wishes to give them both a gift that recognises their importance, but Mycroft knows that something too grand is neither expected nor wanted. 

It is a conundrum of sorts. 

 

-

 

When exactly ten days after John’s hospital appointment Mycroft’s phone rings around noon, Mycroft already knows what John has to say. He arranged that the doctor would call John at work, so that he would have time to consider it away from Sherlock. 

But Mycroft answers the call, pretending not to know. “John?” 

John is smiling, Mycroft can hear it in his voice. “Hi, yes, just wanted to let you know that I’ve got average sperm mobility. ...In case you wanted to hear that over lunch.” 

Mycroft is, in fact, eating. But he can feel a warmth in his chest at John’s obvious relief, and at the sheer fact of receiving a phone call like this. “Well. It does not add much to my salad.” 

John bursts out a laugh. “Yeah… yeah, I’d imagine not.” 

Mycroft can feel a smile flirting around his lips as well. “That is good news, John.” 

“I don’t have the gene report yet, so…” John sounds doubtful. 

The report is on Mycroft’s desk, in fact. Mycroft has looked at it in intense detail for over an hour this morning. John is a carrier for a genetic disease, but Mycroft himself is not. Some worrying family illnesses, but nothing too high risk. Nothing undoable. 

And the faint anxiety in John’s voice prompts Mycroft to say, “I have the results.” 

He realises that perhaps he should not have done this over the phone, because John’s breath stills. “Right.” And then, “What is… I mean, if you can say…”

“You are a carrier for Cystic Fybrosis.” 

John swallows. “Okay.”

“Besides that, there is nothing that would be considered high risk.” 

“No? That’s good. Better than I thought, really.” John sounds as if he has done the research as well. He probably has, Mycroft imagines. 

There’s a brief pause. 

“We can discuss this further tonight, John.” 

Mycroft is ready to end the call, leaving John with the good news, but John says, “Mycroft…” 

“Yes?” 

“If you don’t want it to be me, lie to Sherlock? Tell him there’s something worse.” 

Mycroft can understand why, but the fact that John is even saying it after all the lies that he heard when Sherlock was dead is rather surprising. 

“It’s... if you don’t pick me, Sherlock’s going to hate you for it, and I don’t want to… yeah, don’t do that. Lie to him.” 

No. Mycroft will not lie to Sherlock. “The same goes for you, John. If you have second thoughts.” Mycroft says it, aware that for once, there is a truth that lies between John and himself, and can be manipulated to spare Sherlock. How strange that feels. 

John says, with a brief, shaky inhale. “No. I meant it. I do. Still do.” 

Mycroft feels a sense of gratitude at that - John, steady in his convictions. “You are absolutely certain?” 

“Yes.” 

It feels like a promise between them. Mycroft sits in his office with a salad in front of him, on the phone with the impossible. The one thing, after a series of events that he thought would never happen, that has astonished him the most. John Watson. So he says, “Then we will discuss the details tonight.” 

John breathes. “Okay. Okay, see you in a bit.”

“I will see you, John.” 

Mycroft ends the call, feeling a curious sense of gratitude. For John. For fate, to give them this. 

And of course, then Anthea comes in and says, “Sir, there’s a slight issue with the North Koreans?” And the rest of his day is spent dealing with that, as well as managing several other international crises. 

 

-

 

It is after eight when Mycroft can finally leave the office, and he still takes some work with him for when Violet is asleep. 

He arrives at Baker Street to find her already near-sleep, in Sherlock’s arms on the sofa. John is reading a novel, but he immediately looks up. So does Sherlock. Mycroft says, aware that they were waiting for him, and that timing might have been important today, “My apologies, there was a rather pressing issue.” 

John just nods. 

Even Sherlock does not seem annoyed, as such, but still they do not have the sense of happiness that Mycroft had thought they would have. 

He looks at John, and wonders if he should bring this up some other day. But John gets up. His hand twitches. “So, um... mind telling us what you’re going to do?” 

Mycroft had assumed that John knew already from their conversation on the phone. But no, John does not, Mycroft can tell looking at him now. Neither does Sherlock, he seems, if possible, even more anxious than John is. 

Mycroft looks at the both of them in turn. John, who is looking at him with some trepidation. Sherlock, who has Violet on his lap, and while she is not fully asleep, she is dreamy enough that she is curled to Sherlock’s chest with glassy eyes. Sherlock has a hand on her back, unconsciously soothing her.

Mycroft’s eyes go back to John, who looks at him as if he is bracing for a blow, and says, “If you still agree - both of you.” Another look to Sherlock, who quickly nods. “Then I would accept your offer, John.” 

There’s a brief moment of silence. 

Then John says, “Oh, god.” At the same time as Sherlock says, “Yes!” 

They look at each other, and John moves towards Sherlock, but pauses before he reaches him. John looks back to ask, “You’re sure? Completely?”

Mycroft would almost be insulted by John questioning his decision like this - surely he would never speak without absolute certainty - but he can see the need in John’s eyes to be definite about this. To _know_. “I am.” 

“You… _really?_ ” John says it in an exhale, as if it still seems to hit him. 

Sherlock gets up - he lifts Violet on his arm, and she murmurs in protest - and puts an awkward hand to John’s back. “It’s real, John.” 

The emotion is visible on John’s face. “Yeah, yeah, I…” John looks back at Mycroft. “I didn’t want to hope for it. Not really.”

John wraps his arms around Sherlock in a quick half-hug that involves Violet as well, and seems to be more about him reaching out than anything else. Sherlock returns it, stiffly. 

Mycroft can feel a sense of guilt, now. He has taken months to make this decision, and he never truly considered the impact waiting would have on John. Mycroft turns away, and finds Violet’s changing bag on the table. He takes it, and looks for her coat. When he returns with it, Sherlock has a dutiful hand on John’s shoulder. John’s face is still pulled with emotion. 

Mycroft puts Violet’s coat on her while Sherlock holds her. He is aware that he should leave now, and let them process this. Violet asks, “Fah?” 

“Yes, dear?” Mycroft answers it without thought, his senses are still on what he has done here. It was true, what he warned Sherlock against. This endeavour will be nothing but emotion, for all of them. Mycroft will attempt to stay out of it, to take a step back, and let John and Sherlock consider what this means to them. 

Mycroft takes Violet over from Sherlock. He eyes them both, quickly, and says, “Well, I will let you think on it.” 

But Sherlock, already close, briefly presses his face to Mycroft’s neck. 

Mycroft feels the shudder of warmth and comfort it brings, and breathes out deeply. It is a ‘thank you,’ given in a touch that Sherlock knows is more reliable than words would be. It is brief, but he appreciates it. 

Mycroft nods at Sherlock when he moves away. _Understood, brother dear._

John is different. John looks at him, too, and Mycroft hopes that John will not say anything more, there is no reason to do so. He is relieved when John simply holds out his hand. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft moves Violet to his other arm, and in reply she weakly punches his chest and says, “Faaaaahh…” again, obviously fed up with all this hesitating. 

Mycroft takes John’s hand, and squeezes it lightly. John’s hand is warm in his, his grip sure, but it is his look that Mycroft thinks he will remember for the rest of his life. John does not need to speak for him to understand it. It is immense, what they just decided. 

Mycroft takes Violet outside. When they reach the pavement, he stands there for a moment, and breathes away the uncomfortable whirl of emotion in his stomach. He does not regret this, naturally not. But he feels somewhat weighed down by the sheer scope of it. 

For all of them. 

 

-

 

The next day when Mycroft goes by Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson has Violet. Sherlock has a case, and John has called in sick at work to go along with him. 

In fact, the next time Mycroft even sees them is three days later, both of them looking rather exhausted, but Sherlock with the manic glow of having just solved a puzzle. John says, “Don’t forget about Christmas Eve, right, tomorrow at seven.” 

Mycroft feels surprised that John would think he might _forget_ , until he sees Sherlock’s face. “Is it tomorrow?! Christmas?”

John throws him a quick wink - ah, that is why he said it - “You deleted it, didn’t you?”

“Well, I’ve been busy!” 

But Sherlock seems properly chastised, because when Mycroft arrives the next day with Violet at five minutes before seven - loaded down with Violet’s bag and three bottles of excellent wine - Sherlock is already downstairs, hastily attaching some greenery to the staircase. 

When Mycroft walks into 221b John says, while quickly wiping the living room table, “Can you hide some of Violet’s toys?” 

Mycroft says, “…I imagine I could, yes?” 

And John turns around, and grins. “Ha! Not you.” 

John takes the wine, gathers up the toys himself with a quick look to him and says, “You know how it is.” 

Mycroft, in fact, has no idea how it is. He has never attempted to host a social gathering of any kind in his home, and if he did, he would hire a professional service to deal with all the preparation and decoration. But he keeps Violet out of trouble for the next fifteen minutes while Sherlock and John and Mrs. Hudson set up all around him. And when the doorbell rings, Mycroft even does the honours and goes to open the door to Inspector Lestrade and Miss Hooper, Violet on his arm. 

They do not seem surprised at all to see him do this. Instead it’s, “Mycroft! Merry Christmas. And Violet, oh!” Miss Hooper reaches out to take her. 

Violet is a tad shy, but she does not seem to mind too much to be handed to a near-stranger. Mycroft, after making certain that Violet is not about to burst into tears, says, “May I take your coat?” 

As hectic as it is in the beginning, as soon as everyone is upstairs and settled down, it calms down considerably. 

They open the wine. And yes, Mycroft himself is drinking, aware that should indulge in it this Christmas, because by next Christmas he might have another newborn. Inspector Lestrade, Miss Hooper, and Mrs. Hudson happily chat away. John pours drinks and occasionally throws a look towards Sherlock. Sherlock plays his violin on request. It is almost _pleasant_. 

Through the mild haze of good wine, Mycroft is willing to admit that. 

He is aware that tomorrow he will have to endure the yearly Christmas phone call from Mummy, where she tries to shame him into visiting. Where she mentions Sherlock’s strange silence, and asks him why he will not come over again for Christmas like that one time that John brought his wife, what was her name…

Mycroft lets it roll over him, and never replies to her requests. He knows that sooner or later, they will not be able to keep it a secret any longer, and that it is incredible that they have done so for this long. But he is reluctant to press it now, mainly because of the fact that Sherlock has not contacted either of them, either. 

Out of the two of them, if anyone would believe that Violet needs a relationship with her grandparents, it would be Sherlock. He has much less to forgive, after all. But Sherlock has protected Violet from them just as much as Mycroft has, and more so - in doing so Sherlock has protected himself. Mycroft can see the importance of that gesture for Sherlock as well, and he will not break it. 

Plus, he rather looks forward announcing to Mummy at one point that he has a one-year old, is bonded to Sherlock, and will have a child with John. 

Mycroft is on his fifth glass of wine of the evening, when John sits next to him, and says conspiratorially, “You’re drinking for the whole year, aren’t you?” 

“Exactly, John.” 

John smiles. “Well, give me some, too.” John pours himself another glass, and sits with him for the next hour or so. Occasionally making a remark, but not truly speaking. They both let the party wash over them. 

Mycroft leaves his gift behind when he leaves with Violet - an envelope, in full view of both of them. He thinks that perhaps he does not want to see John’s face when he sees it. Sherlock’s, either. 

Some things are too much.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter we are exactly one third of the way into this story, whoo! But after three months of continuous posting, it also means it's time for a break. 
> 
> My beta, going above and beyond in her duty to this story, just had a baby girl - congratulations! :D She needs some time to catch up on chapters, and my Britpicker and myself will be travelling soon, we will be backpacking through Vietnam where I'm not too sure of having great wifi. So, long story short: we're all taking a breather. 
> 
> I have loved your comments and support so much, thank you, it's been wonderful writing for you! Have a good couple of weeks, and **I will be back with chapter 40 on Saturday the 12th of November.**
> 
> Indy <3


	40. (John)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and we're back! *g*

 

 

John has had a hell of a week. 

First, hearing Mycroft say that John can be the donor. That he’s willing to try and have a baby of both of them. John thought that he was ready for it, but then actually hearing it... John spent the rest of the evening in a kind of daze. 

Sherlock tried to be sympathetic, but still it was a very personal thing. John thinks that he’s finally leaving Mary behind. He’s the one who asked for this, he’s the one who wanted it. He’s with Sherlock, he’s happy, and he’s doing this. 

And then right after that, there was a case. Better than they’ve had in months, really, a crime gang dressing up as Christmas carollers, collecting information and engaging in grand-scale fraud. John has to admit that there’s something rather hilarious in seeing Sherlock squint at every caroller and Santa in London, attempting to catch the fake ones. 

How after all of that Sherlock _still_ managed to delete Christmas, John doesn’t know, except that he was in his mind palace a lot, trying to see the scope of their actions. Especially when it turned out that they were connected to General Chang, who once was affiliated with Moriarty, and even just the tie to him made it suddenly dangerous and immediate. Something that had to be solved now, until the smallest detail was explained. 

Which left John a single night to remind Sherlock about Christmas and sort of prepare. Then go to work, come back and manage to throw a party. But it went well, he thinks. 

They’re left sitting in a living room that looks as if it has been ransacked. Glasses and wrapping paper everywhere, food and half-empty bottles, it’s mad how much of a mess six adults and a toddler can make. 

Granted, most of it was the toddler. Violet had a blast and absolutely refused to go to sleep, causing Mycroft to leave with her, still wide awake, after eleven. 

Mycroft left them a gift, but John knew not to open it with people still here. Mrs. Hudson and Greg and Molly stayed for quite a while longer - they’ve only just left. John sits on the sofa, his head back against the cushions. He says, “I don’t want to move, the room’s spinning.” 

“You’re drunk, John.” Sherlock sounds cheerful. He, too, has had a bit to drink. 

“Yeah.” John says. And then, “Come here?” 

Sherlock lets himself fall down onto the sofa, and John leans against his shoulder, then his chest, then sinks down onto Sherlock’s legs face-first and laughs. It’s nice here. Warm. John says to Sherlock’s crotch, “Well, hello.” 

Sherlock tenses for a moment, but when he realises that John’s not going to do anything, he relaxes. 

John lowers his mouth right over the fabric of Sherlock’s trousers, and says, making sure to breathe closely to it, “Hello, good lookin’.”

Sherlock laughs, and doesn’t push him away. John enjoys the moment, and smells Sherlock’s scent there, under the washing powder and fabric of his trousers. Alpha, sharp and hot. 

John realises he’s half-hard. 

It’s happened a lot in the last two weeks, of course it bloody has - considering he’s not getting any and Sherlock has been so temptingly, gratifyingly, amazingly close. John takes another deep sniff. _Hmm, yes._

Sherlock asks, “What are you doing?” He still sounds as if he is smiling. He’s drunk, too, probably, and happy, and full, and it’s been such a great Christmas Eve. 

“Saying Merry Christmas to your cock.” John giggles a bit. Also, “Smelling you.” 

“Hm.” Sherlock’s hand lands on his back, and John lies there, aware that it’s a cuddle, just a cuddle, on the sofa. Sherlock won’t want it to be any more than that. But it’s also an _almost_. It’s not going to happen, but John could pretend that it will. That he’s about to open Sherlock’s trousers, that Sherlock will keep him here, hold him down, that John will get to put his mouth around that big cock. 

John turns his head to Sherlock’s chest, and looks up right into his nostrils. He admits, “I might be enjoying this a bit too much.” 

Sherlock looks hesitant. 

John’s fingers are itching to touch Sherlock, his mouth waters at the thought of sucking him, of tasting him, but…

Sherlock leans back into the cushions, and says, as if it doesn’t matter one way or the other to him, “You can touch yourself, if you want.” 

John looks up at him. _Really?_ Sherlock knows what he’s saying, it’s not like he’s that drunk. 

It’s tempting, for sure. 

John lowers his hand, and squeezes himself lightly through his trousers. It feels as if he’s getting away with something. “You’ll... watch?” Sherlock won’t do more, he assumes.

“Yes.” 

Okay, yes, that could be hot. John grins. He lies back, his head on Sherlock’s lap. He opens his trousers, kind of fumbles the button and zip, he’s drunk enough that his hands don’t completely do what he wants them to, but it feels warm and content and whole. 

John pushes his trousers down far enough, and pulls his cock out. 

He should feel exposed, he thinks, with Sherlock watching, but it feels comfortable instead. As if they’ve done this before. His cock pulses happily when he takes it in his hand. 

John did think about doing this again, _has he ever,_ but he’d thought that they could try with the door closed, like in the hospital. Or just talking. But then the case happened and so… But this is fucking genius! John looks up at Sherlock. “This okay? For you?” 

Sherlock says. “Hm.” John touches himself and sighs, happily. This is... he should have thought to do this before. Sherlock doesn’t need to do a thing, John’s not going to ask him, he’ll just get himself off. But it’s different with Sherlock this close. It feels bloody good, actually. 

John goes on for a while. He’s not drawing it out on purpose, really. He’s drunk and tired and it feels nice, to lie here like this. On Sherlock’s lap. He’s all too aware that Sherlock’s looking at him curiously. 

After a while, Sherlock’s hand moves, and settles on his chest. 

He’s feeling his heartbeat. “How many beats per minute?” It’s not going to be off the charts, John thinks. 

Sherlock answers immediately, “Approximately eighty.” 

“You think it goes up closer to climax?”

Sherlock says, “We can measure it with a heart monitor.” 

John pretty much expects Sherlock to run off and get him one from somewhere, but no, Sherlock stays. John grabs his cock tighter, strokes - _ah yes_ \- and says, “We’re going to have to investigate that, then.” 

Sherlock’s eyes seem warm.

“You can draw a chart.” John speeds his hand up, he leans forward, and then slows it again. “The case of the horny doctor.” He’s kind of amusing himself, really. 

Sherlock offers, “Physical changes in arousal.” 

“As measured by Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes?” John loves saying their names together like this. To have it on his lips, to smile, and do this. 

Sherlock lowers his hand, just a little. And damn, John shouldn’t think this, but he loosens his grip, and eyes Sherlock’s hand, lying on his ribs now. Imagines it wrapped around his cock. The careful pull of those long, sensual fingers. John hasn’t had that in a year, a whole fucking _year_ of wanting it. But no, he shouldn’t ask. 

Not now. 

John turns his head to Sherlock’s stomach instead, and tries to smell him again while he pulls himself off. It’s so good, it runs through him like heat. He groans, “Sherlock…”

Sherlock puts his hand on John’s shoulder, and strokes it lightly. John doesn’t fight the pull of orgasm, he smells alpha, shudders, and comes all over his fingers. 

John lies back, and closes his eyes for a minute. He can still feel it throb through him. It was great. He dozes for a while. 

After a bit, Sherlock moves enough to mean that he wants to go, so John shifts out of his way. 

Sherlock’s straight on to getting ready for bed, and then disappears into his room. 

John gets up, too. He brushes his teeth, pees, then goes to Sherlock’s room, and hesitates in the doorway. “You, um, you want me to sleep here?” 

Sherlock’s a badly lit lump. “Yes.” Sherlock turns in a whoosh of blankets, and says, sounding tired, “Come to bed, John.” 

John can feel the thought of that tickle him. 

He gets undressed, but keeps his underwear on. He settles in bed, far enough away that Sherlock can’t feel him, and then leans close enough to aim his usual kiss onto Sherlock’s cheek. He’s vaguely off because he gets a bit of Sherlock’s ear, but Sherlock breathes as if he likes it. 

John wants to say ‘thank you’, but then he’s not sure if that’s it, really. Sherlock shouldn’t feel as if he has to watch him. It probably wasn’t too great for him, was it? 

John falls asleep straight away. 

 

-

 

When he wakes up, John’s eyelids are pasted together. He opens them, slowly, to a stab of barely-there light, and swallows heavily. 

He’s not sure he’s hung-over at all until he tries to sit up, and the whole room does a slow, sickening tilt. 

He manages to stand, and to go to the bathroom. Sherlock is already up, lying on the sofa with a pillow over his head, surrounded by an ungodly mess. Right. They never cleaned up. 

John gives up on the thought of doing anything of the sort, and just falls down into his chair. Sherlock speaks from behind his pillow, “Headache.” 

“We’ve got aspirin in the bathroom.” John points it out, but doesn’t move.

Neither does Sherlock. 

They linger in the low morning light of the cold living room, not saying or doing a thing, but still John feels connected to Sherlock. If nothing else, they’re both suffering. And there’s not really a reason to talk about him wanking on the sofa, is there? If it happens again, then, great, he’d - yes. But if it doesn’t, if it was just a one-off, then John can live with that, too. He can. 

Mrs. Hudson comes by later with steaming breakfasts that first turn his stomach and then when he tries a bite, seem to sort of help anyway. 

She, at least, seems much better accustomed to alcohol than they are. 

John spares a thought for Mycroft. He’s dealing with Violet right now, after however much he had. John remembers him drinking about a bottle of wine at least. John texts him, squinting against the light of the screen. “Hope you’re not in too much pain, both Sherlock and me are hanging a bit. Mrs. Hudson’s fine, though. JW” 

Mycroft replies, “Some medicinal aid was required, Violet did not fall asleep until 1 this morning, and then woke again at 5. MH” 

John says, “Shit. No wonder you’re feeling it. Drink enough water. JW” 

Mycroft doesn’t reply for a while, and John realises that he’s pretty much given him an order. But then Mycroft says, “I will. I hope you feel better soon as well, John. MH” 

 

-

 

It’s well into the afternoon before John ignores the lingering headache, grabs a bin bag, and starts cleaning up. Some of the wrapping paper has travelled all the way into the bedroom, and the hall. He tries not to groan every time he bends over and his skull throbs. 

He gathers all the empty bottles to one side, the glasses to the kitchen, and then finds, under the living room table, the envelope that Mycroft left for them. It has both their names on it, written in Mycroft’s thin, swirly handwriting that John hasn’t seen anyone use unless they’ve followed a calligraphy course of some sort. 

“To Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.” 

John pushes Sherlock’s feet away - he’s still in a languid stupor of laziness - sits down, and says, “You deduce what Mycroft gave us?” 

Sherlock opens an eye, and groans. “Don’t care.” 

John opens the envelope, not sure what he’s expecting. It’s two small pieces of paper, thin. An invitation maybe? 

They’re _cheques_. One made out to John himself, another to Sherlock. The amount is blank. 

John looks at them for a minute before he realises that there’s a small card to go with it, in nice card stock. Mycroft’s own handwriting again, “I find there is nothing to repay you for your continued kindness to both Violet and myself. Please use these for whatever it is you require. If you wish to buy a house, I would be glad to be of assistance.”

John stares at it for a long moment. 

Then swallows. _Jesus._

Sherlock has seen, and he rolls his eyes. “No inspiration to get us anything. Boring.” 

“Sherlock!” John can hardly believe what he’s holding here. He waves the cheques a little, and frowns. “…how rich is he, exactly?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “There’s probably a limit somewhere, but if we need more he’d get it.” 

“He says we could buy _a house_.” 

Sherlock doesn’t seem at all impressed. “Do you want one?” 

John thinks about it. They could move into some gleaming mansion like Mycroft has. But. “To leave Baker Street?” No, he doesn’t want to leave here, it’s home. “Would you want to?”

“No.” Sherlock seems definite about that. 

John puts the cheques back into the envelope. He should keep them somewhere safe, he thinks. Actually, it’s probably surprising that Sherlock hasn’t grabbed them from his hands and ripped them up.

John’s never had that kind of money. He’s never owned a house, or a flat, or even a car. When they had one, it was Mary’s. 

It makes his last texts to Mycroft pale a bit in comparison, too. John takes his phone, and types, “Only just opened your present.” He doesn’t know what else to add. What can he say? ‘Thanks’ seems kind of weak, doesn’t it? He gives it a go anyway, adds, “Thank you. JW”

But then it feels too small somehow, because who gives that sort of thing? 

They don’t need a house. Or anything from Mycroft, really. Except... oh, wait. John smiles. He _does_ know what to ask. He types, “Can’t say for Sherlock, but I know what I want I’d like. JW”

Mycroft replies, “I am glad to hear it, John, what can I do for you? MH”

And John knows that if he asks for a mansion right now, or a brand new sports car, or a job at MI6, or god, anything, anything at all, Mycroft would give it to him. That’s sort of dangerous, really. Which is exactly why he doesn’t want to ask anything big at all. John sends, smiling as he does it - he’d give a lot to see Mycroft’s face right now - “A suit. JW” 

The reply comes in seconds. “I can recommend you an expert tailor. MH” 

John writes, “Nothing too fancy, mind, I’m hardly anything like you two. Just good enough to take Sherlock to dinner someplace nice. JW” 

“I will make certain it is exactly what you are looking for, John. MH” 

John puts the phone down. He catches Sherlock looking at him, and says, “Don’t worry, I didn’t get us a villa in France.” 

Sherlock seems briefly intrigued. “Would you like that?” 

John wouldn’t, really. He shrugs. “Maybe someday.” He looks at Sherlock. “You don’t want to know what I asked for?” 

Sherlock waves it off. “Something small that you know would please Mycroft as much as it does you.” 

John expects that Mycroft’s tailor will manage to make him look decent. Next time they go out, he will look like he deserves to have Sherlock on his arm, for once. He asks, “You fancy going out again sometime? A good restaurant?” 

Sherlock seems surprised he asked, but then nods. “Yes.” 

“Good.” John grins. Maybe it’s time he took Sherlock out to dinner for once.

 

 

 

 

 


	41. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock feels great. 

For once, they had a case that was both interesting and all-consuming. It was a rush to solve the puzzle, to tie it all together. And then, when he was done, it was Christmas. 

Sherlock has always liked Christmas, mainly for the stories Mycroft used to tell when they were very young, and he, for an embarrassingly long time, believed to be true. Later, Christmas meant that Mycroft would come home from school, and bring him stories of a different kind. 

It all rather faded as he got older, but he never really fully lost the fascination for it. And now, this Christmas… it was nothing like the cold panic and awkwardness Sherlock felt around John last year, when he was desperately trying to please him and knew he was failing. This one was better. 

John lying on his lap, touching himself, trusting him to see that. It was good, to have John that close. To observe John’s heartbeat. To see him and hear him. It is a type of sex that Sherlock had never even thought to try, or has found of interest. But John seems to do it so naturally. He is always aroused, it seems, ready to go with the smallest amount of cooperation from him, and Sherlock, a bit curiously, finds that he could give this. It worked.

The thought is both heady and ecstatic. 

 

-

 

Of course, John wants to do it again. 

John has not tried anything when they are in bed together, but once the post-Christmas headache has worn off, Mycroft has gone back to work and Violet has been over, they’re sitting on the sofa again, and suddenly it feels expectant. 

John wants Sherlock to give him something sexual again, Sherlock can feel the pressure of it. But John should realise that this is not what Sherlock is good at. That he can’t just do this, have sex.

John comes closer regardless, and Sherlock puts an arm around him, because he doesn’t know what else to do. Although he can already feel the intimacy itch in his chest. It makes him feel strange, as if his body drifts off. Sherlock, as ever, briefly looks at John’s neck and wishes… but no, he can’t. 

So he holds on, closely, and tries to regulate his breathing and get through it. 

But John notices something, because he says, “You don’t want this right now?”

Sherlock can feel the lie on his tongue, and it’s not a full lie, _I always want you, John._ But in reality, his body can’t, he can’t, it’s… He says, “No.” 

John smiles briefly, sadly, and lets him go. “It’s fine.”

He doesn’t try again. 

 

-

 

John did ask to go out to dinner, so Sherlock takes him. It’s Sherlock’s birthday, actually, not that that matters, he sees no reason to celebrate how long ago he was born. Still, he doesn’t need to pretend that it’s for a case like he would have before. Sherlock takes John to dinner because John asked, and because they are dating, and that is what people do. 

Sherlock asks Mycroft to take Violet early. But when he arrives, Mycroft smells very clearly of hormones. Sherlock looks him over, and says, “You are close to implantation.” And then he squints, traces of the scent of hospital, creases in Mycroft’s jacket. “You had one. This morning.”

Mycroft smiles enigmatically. “I will tell you if it is successful, Sherlock, but before that please refrain from deducing the details of my hormonal cycle, since I believe the answers would do nothing but embarrass us both.”

Sherlock nods. “Fine.” It’s true, though. He can smell it. 

“But on that note…” Mycroft sighs, his mouth pulls, and then he steps close, hesitantly. “If you perhaps could…” 

It’s the first time he has asked. But Sherlock will, of course. He leans close enough to smell the needy warmth there, and he can feel an immediate response in his body, an urging to get closer. There is nothing as satisfying as to bring his mouth there, right over the mark, and bite. 

Sherlock might have moaned, because when he lets go, Mycroft looks at him oddly and then says, “I take it the scent makes a difference?”

Yes, it does. Sherlock can feel a sense of arousal, of heightened happiness, and if only he could do this to John, if only… He sighs. 

Mycroft averts his eyes. “I do apologise if this is uncomfortable for you.”

“No.” Sherlock says it quickly. He can’t be sure whether Mycroft was about to suggest not to do it anymore, but he wants to be connected to John’s child, he _needs_ to. “It’s fine.”

Mycroft seems slightly taken aback by his insistence, but then nods. 

Sherlock wants to say, ‘it’s not just for you,’ but he doesn’t want to say it. What it truly feels like. 

Mycroft has deduced something though, because he asks, quietly, “What is it, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock doesn’t even know what it is. 

“John?” Mycroft guesses. He seems to understand. “Of course you would prefer to experience this with him.” 

It’s not just that. It’s so much easier, this, than all the rest. Than all the touching and hesitating and the sheer annoyance of it! Sex. 

“Is your relationship not going well?”

 _No. Yes._ Sherlock has no idea. 

Mycroft looks him over. Then rests his hand on his shoulder, briefly. 

Violet gives him a big smack of a kiss before they leave, and that makes Sherlock feel somewhat more connected to reality. It will be all right.

 

-

 

When John comes home, Sherlock asks, “Dinner?” 

John agrees, and they go out, sit in the half-dark, eating, and smiling. John seems at ease. Happy. 

Sherlock tries to drink again, because maybe it’ll help. Just to loosen up a bit, to forget. But John doesn’t ask for anything when they come home. They lie in bed, and Sherlock takes John’s hand, tangles his fingers with John’s, and it feels perfect. 

For just a little while, it is.

 

-

 

Sherlock knows it’s just a matter of time before John takes the alternative, then. Before he tries to find it somewhere else. 

He’s right, it’s only a couple of days later - they’ve been together again for three weeks, now - when John says, “So, if I want to go on a date, how does that work?” 

Sherlock had been prepared for it, but it still hurts to hear. He’d thought that maybe John would be happy with just… _No._ He needs to be realistic. “Like you were doing before is fine.” 

“Do you want me to tell you when I do?” 

Sherlock could deduce it anyway. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Okay.” John seems calm about it. “Okay, we’ll see how that goes, then?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock’s mouth feels dry. “Go on a date, John.” 

Sherlock checks John’s computer, and sees the mails John sends after that conversation. That he put himself down as ‘single, looking for casual hook-ups.’ But that’s part of having John, and Sherlock knew it. He knew what he was doing when he suggested this. 

The first time John actually prepares to leave to be with someone else, Sherlock feels terrible. He can see that John doesn’t want to go, either. Sherlock thinks he could tell him to stay, and John would. But then that would only work now, and when John realises how disappointing he is, this is, it will all blow up again. So no, this makes sense. Sherlock gently kisses John’s cheek. Sherlock looks at John, and says, “I hope you will have sex, John.” 

And John stares at him, anger briefly brushing past his eyes, then resignation. After a moment he says, “...Um, thanks, yeah, I’ll try.” And then leaves. 

He comes back two hours later with, when Sherlock doesn’t say anything, a hesitant smile.

Sherlock lies close to him in bed, at night. 

It’s better, like this. 

It’s all right.

 

 

 

 

 


	42. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft gave Sherlock and John the cheques as a Christmas present expecting them to be used for either nothing at all, or something unusually expensive that they cannot afford themselves. John’s small request, in comparison, makes him smile. A suit. 

John was right to ask him, of course. Mycroft will make certain that John receives exactly what he wishes. Mycroft did not think of ever offering it himself, but then John never seemed the type to care much for clothing.

However, there is never anything wrong with a good suit, and the more Mycroft thinks about it, the more he feels somewhat pleased that John requested it from him specifically. It will be a gift that he is more than happy to provide. Mycroft imagines that John will look rather splendid in a nicely fitted suit as well. John has a much less bulky physique than his casual clothing tends to suggest. 

But first… 

Mycroft feels a rather pronounced nervousness for the implantation. The sixth of January. 

Mycroft asked the nanny to come earlier, and goes to the hospital before work. The implantation itself is very short, and nearly painless. It carries with it a sense of shame, naturally. It is deeply undignified to lie there with his bare legs covered by a sheet, and to wait for it. It is a strange, clinical parody of sex. His body, already prepared by his carefully injected daily doses of hormones, contracts around the metal when it enters him. 

Mycroft tries not to think about it, not to feel the faint pleasing fullness shuddering through him. 

It is only a vague imitation of a heat, but that does not mean that he is not embarrassingly wet. 

The treatment is over quickly, and then he is left alone, and told to lie still for thirty minutes. Mycroft works on his phone, and tries not to think about what might or might not be happening. 

After, he goes to work, and then picks up Violet earlier than usual so Sherlock can be with John tonight. Mycroft does not know if it is for the occasion of Sherlock’s birthday or not, but either way, he is somewhat glad to catch Sherlock alone. It will up the odds considerably if he were to bond at this point. 

So Mycroft, aware of how very unfair this is of him, asks for it. 

Sherlock does not hesitate, and it immediately feels unusually enjoyable - Mycroft can feel his whole body heat up and radiate want when Sherlock bonds to him. Mycroft suppresses it out of habit, he can, but it is slightly harder when Sherlock _groans_ , and the sound settles in his stomach. _Really, Sherlock, do pretend that this is not quite that pleasurable, would you?_

But when he sees a flash of regret in Sherlock’s face, Mycroft feels a sudden worry. 

They have been bonded for almost two years now, and it has become a constant. A feeling that he is glad to receive, a bond that he feels down to his bones is right. It has felt nothing but positive between them in the last year, and Mycroft has not had a reason to doubt it in a long time. But Sherlock never had to deal with this amount of hormones, with Mycroft this near a heat. It is deeply suggestive, and he does know that. Mycroft feels a pinch of guilt - he did not need this, not truly. He asked simply for the chance that it might help. 

But Sherlock is thinking of John, instead. As ever, Mycroft feels for him that John is not the omega who would complete Sherlock. 

Although he does not assume that if John was, they would be any better off. 

 

-

 

It does not work.

Mycroft wakes the next morning with an even higher temperature. He can feel a soft, sweet cramping between his legs. His body is still craving sex, so that means that it most likely did not take. He is not pregnant. 

Mycroft spends the day avoiding people. He is exuding a great amount of hormones at this point, and he is not in a great mood. 

He picks Violet up, aware that he needs to make it fast, especially when Sherlock’s mouth opens and he inhales deeply as he walks in.

“…yes, I’m aware.” Mycroft collects Violet’s things, and tries not to blush at the sheer absurdness of this. 

John hands him Violet’s toy giraffe. Even he, probably entirely unconsciously, looks him over, and licks his lips. “Um, do you want to, for the, um…” John trails off, and looks at him with a confused expression. 

Mycroft feels regret, at this. His body has failed, and John does not know, he is simply aware of the residual effects. “I will speak to you later, John.” 

Violet, at least, does not seem to be affected by it at all, and is her usual energetic self. 

 

-

 

A week later, a test confirms what Mycroft already suspected. He is not pregnant. 

Mycroft does not allow himself to feel any sadness, or disappointment. It was ridiculous to assume that this would be that easy. 

Naïve. 

Even superstitious, to think that because it was on Sherlock’s birthday it would have any chance of being more successful. 

Mycroft starts the injections again. The cycles are much faster than regular omega physiology would dictate, but he cannot afford to wait three months between every implantation. It will be hard on his body, yes, but everything truly worth having is. Twice-monthly blood tests will check whether his liver is processing the hormones at an acceptable level. 

He would much rather deal with some inconvenience now than to have to miss the ever-shrinking window of time in which he can still have a second child. 

 

-

 

Mycroft arranged an appointment for John with one of his personal tailors that does great work in a slightly more casual style. Mycroft had intended to be there, but then there was an issue with a Brussels terrorist cell, and he was unable to make the appointment. He called and offered his apologies. 

Mycroft wondered whether he should have even tried to go - John will be able to choose a suit without his interference perfectly well. And Mycroft will pay for it, which is the most important part, surely. 

Except that he does know that John is going back in for a second fitting today. And now he does have time, so Mycroft tries not to doubt his welcome, and lets his driver bring him to the shop on Savile Row. 

Mycroft walks in, and all eyes suddenly shift to him. He is a well-known customer, after all. There is a small nod. “Mister Holmes. Can I help you?” 

Mycroft tilts his head. “John Watson?” 

The woman’s eyebrows rise for a fraction of a moment, and then her professionalism wins out, and she says, “Ah, yes, please follow me.” 

Mycroft is guided into a large dressing room, mirrors on every wall, and John is standing on a step, being measured. He is in a dark grey, the colour nothing drab but instead flattering on him. The tailor is currently adjusting the line of his shoulders, which is why John does not see him immediately. 

Mycroft takes John in. The lines of the suit are already visible, and yes, he was right, John is slimmer than his usual clothing gives him credit for. 

Mycroft feels some hesitance in announcing his presence. Is he really wanted here? Is he intruding on something private? And then the tailor moves out of the way, John sees him, and John’s slightly nervous expression changes to a smile. “Mycroft!”

Mycroft walks in, feeling somewhat flattered to be greeted so generously in public. “John.” 

The tailor, Henry - the best of this particular shop, naturally, Mycroft would not have wanted anyone else to work on John - looks briefly startled. “Mr. Holmes! Always a pleasure.” 

Mycroft privately thinks that Henry will never have heard Mycroft being greeted like that. That no one other than John, or possibly Violet, ever does, with genuine delight in their tone and face. 

John says, “You’ve come to see how I’m doing?”

“Naturally.” Mycroft says, “As you well know, I am only too glad to offer my opinion.” 

John grins. “Yeah, I do need it in this case though, I don’t know anything about this.” He spreads his arms, showing off how the fabric spans his chest and shoulders. “What do you think?” 

Mycroft addresses the tailor, “Another quarter of an inch in the waist, and a slightly longer side line - Doctor Watson lives an active lifestyle.” 

Henry nods seriously, and adjusts the fabric accordingly. 

John laughs. “Do I?”

“Of course, you do a great deal of running. As well as get involved in the occasional _tussle_ , do you not?” Mycroft says it with a mild smile himself.

“Hmm, maybe.” John grins, slightly mischievously. 

Henry, still paying more attention than Mycroft would want him to, says, “It has been a pleasure to meet Doctor Watson, Mister Holmes.” He is clearly curious, expecting Mycroft to define their relationship to one another. 

John has either not noticed this, or chooses to ignore it completely, because he says, “Violet tried to eat an actual violet this morning. Did Sherlock tell you? Mrs. Hudson took her to a garden centre, apparently. She got it out of her mouth straight away, but still.”

Mycroft knows that John would not mention it so casually if there had been any danger to Violet at all, but still he frowns. “We should keep her away from all non-edible plant life.” 

“I think violets are edible, actually. But still, yeah, we will.” 

Mycroft can see the assumption in Henry. He surely remembers the adjustments made to Mycroft’s suits throughout his pregnancy, and at the casual mention of his daughter, Henry will assume that John, while not his bonded, is his current partner. 

Mycroft does not correct him. 

He sits down, and has an offered cup of tea while they finish the fitting for John.

 

-

 

Later, when Mycroft walks John out, John says, proving to be more astute that Mycroft had expected him to be, “You know that tailor thinks that we’re together, right?” John grins, as if he finds it to be funny. “Or that I’m your bit on the side, I suppose, since you’re bonded.” 

Mycroft is about to apologise - he truly did not mean to make John uncomfortable - but John speaks on, “Sherlock always did that, too. In the whole time we weren’t together, he never corrected anyone when they thought we were. I always thought that was weird.” 

_No, it is you, John, who always felt the need to define your relationship, while Sherlock quietly adored you for years._ Mycroft says, “I imagine that he was not correcting them because he hoped that it might become the truth.” 

John stills. 

Ah, yes, that might be misconstrued, might it not? Mycroft adds quickly, “But of course, you wish for them to understand that you are with Sherlock and not myself, I will be clearer about that in the future.” Sherlock is much more attractive that Mycroft himself is, of course John would not want to be mistaken for his - he might find it an insult of sorts even. Mycroft does not know why he did not correct Henry. Surely he should have. 

But John says, searchingly, “I... didn’t mind.” 

Mycroft does not look at him any further, simply says, “I hope the suit will be satisfactory, John.” And then, aware that this really should not be a sore point between them at all, it never has been, Mycroft smiles and says, “I do believe you will look splendid in it.” 

John smiles back at that, a little disbelieving. “That’s… thanks?”

“Of course.” Mycroft gets in his car, only aware when it drives away that he has been behaving rather irrationally. 

It’s the hormones. 

It did not mean a thing, but he should be more careful - this is absolutely not the type of conversation he needs to be having with John Watson. Perhaps at some point in the future they can go back to joking casually as they have been, but not now his body feels the urge to…

_No._

 

-

 

Mycroft keeps his visits to Baker Street rather short for the next few weeks. John is as friendly as ever, and does not seek him out for a private conversation to spell out that he should not even think about such things, so Mycroft feels rather reassured that it was not nearly as noticeable a flirtation as he had assumed it to be at the time. 

He does not remember this exact thing being a problem when trying to conceive Violet. If people noticed at all, they were at a far enough distance not to even attempt any personal remark, touch, or connection. But now… 

Mycroft spends the time right before his second try at implantation hyper-aware of any contact with anyone, and attempting to avoid it as much as possible. Sherlock tries not to make any sound at all when they bond, but Mycroft is uncomfortably aware of the fact that he is trying not to. That it is more than just a little pleasant comfort between them at this time. There are heavy hormones being exchanged between them with the purpose of tricking his body into assuming that there was sex. 

Mrs. Hudson touches his arm when she passes him by in the hallway and wants to say goodbye to Violet, and Mycroft shudders. She politely pretends not to notice. 

Anthea looks at him a little warily, and says, “You have been distracted, sir.” Mycroft gives her a small smile and nothing more, and tries to press it all away into an easily contained box of human interaction – unnecessary. 

All considered, Mycroft is rather relieved when he makes it to the second date of implantation without any further incidents. 

Violet was conceived on the second try. He can tell that there is a difference in his body chemistry from the last time. He feels more prepared for it. 

The implantation goes as it did before. The doctor comes by to wish him good luck, Mycroft spends some extra time lying down, and admits to himself that he is indeed very ready for this part to be over. Not that early pregnancy will be easy at all, but at least it will be more of a familiar experience. 

The next day, his temperature is a little lower, and he feels a very faint moment of hope. 

Perhaps.

 

 

 

 

 


	43. (John)

 

 

John isn’t having sex with Sherlock. Again. 

He had hoped for too much, hadn’t he? With what happened in the hospital and at Christmas, too, he’d thought that they’d unlocked it. That they had finally found the key to making it good for both of them, to have some sort of happy middle. 

But it was too much, because everything he’s tried since then… it doesn’t work. 

John hasn’t tried a lot, to be honest. He’s had it with being rejected. He knows that it must feel bad to Sherlock, but honestly, wanting to hug, or even just touch the man who’s supposed to be your - well, _is_ Sherlock his partner? His _something_ , anyway - and having him pull away… 

It hurts. It bloody hurts. 

But John’s not going to fuck this up. Not this time. So John, instead of trying to fix it like he did last time, takes it in stride. 

When Sherlock moves away from him, he reads a book instead. 

When Sherlock doesn’t even take his hand in bed, John turns over onto his side, and goes to sleep. 

Everything is fine on the surface, and he wants to keep it that way, too, being close. But underneath he can already feel the frustration brewing. Which is why he gives in, and goes on a date. 

John’s loathe to admit it, since it sounds like such a messed up idea, but Sherlock was right to suggest it. An open relationship. John doesn’t even really know what that means. And he’s pretty sure that whatever Sherlock and him are doing isn’t the traditional way to do it - real couples have sex, don’t they? Or at the very least touch each other every once in a while. But hey, it works. That’s the point, it works. 

Whenever the frustration of having Sherlock that close but not _having_ him becomes too much, John goes out. 

John flirts outrageously with women - he hardly cares who, they’re all wrong for him, he doesn’t even remember their name two seconds after they’ve told him. It doesn’t matter, most of the time he doesn’t get anywhere. Sometimes he does, some kissing, or a quick trip to hers. Some awkward, mediocre sex, and then he comes home and he’s glad to be back. 

It feels right, to come home. Every single time. 

So Sherlock was right, John thinks. No matter how strange it all is, how much it feels like he’s cheating on Sherlock, this is going to make it work for both of them. Or at least kind of. 

Because John doesn’t want to be fucking nameless women, not really. But if he can’t have what he really wants, well. It’s close to it. That’s what it always is, isn’t it? _Nearly._

 

-

 

John goes to get his suit. It’s finally finished. These hand-made things take time, apparently.

He tries not to think about Mycroft, and whatever that was - _was_ Mycroft hitting on him? They’ve always done some low-level teasing, but that was different. 

Mycroft stays away a bit more because of it, John thinks, and he’s surprised that Sherlock doesn’t comment on it. But when he does, he says, “It’s because of me.” 

“Because of you?”

“I…” Sherlock seems uncharacteristically embarrassed for a moment, “I respond to his hormones when we bond.” 

And John tries to suppress a sense of relief, because okay - that’s a lot worse than his own little moment of looking at Mycroft and genuinely considering shagging him. Sherlock is Mycroft’s brother and even _he_ couldn’t help it. 

So that’s okay then, really. John goes out of his way to be as normal as possible, and he can see Mycroft sort of relax as well, so it’s all good. 

And now, with the suit, John texts him, “It’s finished, finally. Taking Sherlock out tonight! JW” 

Mycroft replies, “I am glad to hear that, John. Enjoy your meal. MH” 

 

-

 

John made a reservation. Not at La Gavroche - he’s not that rich - but at a French Michelin starred restaurant anyway. 

He’s in his new suit, walking downstairs, ready to tell Sherlock to change into something nice and that they’re going out, when Sherlock looks up with a gleam in his eyes, and says, “Ah, John! Your coat, come on, we have a case!”

So John runs back upstairs, changes quickly, and they’re off. 

The next time he tries, it’s Mycroft who’s stuck at work. They hand Violet to Mrs. Hudson, but Violet’s in a clingy mood as well as running a bit of a fever, and she screams desperately. 

John, after seeing the minutes tick away, says, “Never mind.” 

The third time, John tries to make sure. He arranges it with Mycroft that he’ll take Violet, and they make it all the way to the street, hailing a cab, when Sherlock’s phone goes and it’s Lestrade, saying that there’s a murder Sherlock ought to take a look at. 

Sherlock bravely says, “We can eat first.” 

But then it’ll be too late and John has to be at work tomorrow, so John says, “And miss a nice murder? Are you crazy?” 

The smile Sherlock gives him is worth ripping the knee of his brand new suit later when John crawls into a cellar and gets stuck on a loose bit of rusty pipe. 

John texts Mycroft, “Haven’t been able to wear the suit on a date, I think it’s cursed. Does your tailor do repairs? JW” 

Mycroft replies, “Yes, you can give it to the shop manager. MH” and, “I can arrange a police escort to ensure you both to get to the restaurant? MH” 

John isn’t sure if Mycroft’s joking. He almost laughs, and it if was anyone else… but what he says is, “Yeah, could you? JW” 

 

-

 

Sherlock seems to find it somewhat thrilling, at least, to be ordered to wear something nice, and then pushed into a police car. 

John says, “We’re going on a date even if it kills us,” and Sherlock’s face shines. 

John wonders at that, before he realises, right, _date_. He called it a date, and that sort of stuff matters to Sherlock. 

John occasionally still thinks about Sherlock asking to marry him, so long ago now. John never got why he’d want to, Sherlock, of all people. Why he’d care, why he’d even ask, but John thinks he’s starting to get it now. Sherlock got it wrong, it’s not John who’s the romantic. Oh, no. It’s Sherlock. 

John tests his theory by opening the door and letting Sherlock walk through first, which he does without noticing. By holding a hand to Sherlock’s back as they walk to the table, which earns him a small glance. John draws the line at pulling the chair back for Sherlock, but when they sit, John takes Sherlock’s hand, and holds it, on the table. 

It makes him feel rather ridiculous, to be honest. 

It really, really isn’t his thing. Plus, John’s only too aware of what people must be thinking - that’s a gorgeous bonded alpha whose hand he’s holding. But he does it anyway, and Sherlock’s surprised smile makes it worth it. 

They have to let go when the food arrives, but John thinks he did right with this. 

The thing is, he’s never been the chocolate-and-flowers sort of guy. The dressing up and going out, all the pretending, the times he’s done it were because he wanted the thing after, right? Like everyone does. It’s all just a lead-up to sex. But now it isn’t, obviously. Now, he’s doing all of that simply for Sherlock, and John’s not sure if he’s getting sappy in his middle age or what, but it’s actually kind of nice like this, too. Without expectations. 

He eats enough to be pleasantly full, and on the way back, in a regular cab this time, they sit close. John thinks he could probably die quite happily around now. 

He, wisely, takes a shower and wanks there, so he won’t have to lie next to Sherlock and feel ready to hump him. Especially when Sherlock takes his hand again, kisses it lightly, and then his wrist, and hums. 

“You liked that, then?” John asks. 

“It was great, John.” 

And John has it on his lips, ready to ask, ‘Is this _it_ then? Is this _all?_ Are we never having sex again?’ But he doesn’t. It’s a lot, what they do have. It’s a whole lot. 

John thinks of himself, three years ago, desperately alone. Back then he would have killed for this, wouldn’t he? 

 

-

 

John is alone with Violet for once.

Sherlock went to the morgue to play with some samples. Supposedly for a case, but mainly just to see Molly and catch up, John thinks. Those two gossip over dead bodies like old ladies over tea. 

Violet’s dragging a doll all over the floor, and trying to settle it upside down into her own bouncy seat which she loved when she was smaller. She’s not the most patient, and gets frustrated enough to throw it to the floor. John is keeping an eye on her while reading the paper. He’s trying to decide when to intervene and stop a potential meltdown, when he hears the sound of Mycroft’s key turning, and his footsteps walking up the stairs. 

John says, “Listen, you know who’s there? It’s your father!” He still thinks it sounds a bit awkward, really. John thinks ‘dad’ makes more sense, but hey, it’s Mycroft. 

Violet looks up, and says, “Fah?” 

“Yes, look.”

John points at the door. Violet looks, and then as Mycroft walks through, his face in his habitual scowl, Violet screeches, “Fah!” and raises her arms up. 

Mycroft’s face changes into a tired smile, and he bends over to take her in his arms. “Hello, my Violet.” 

She gives him a smack of a kiss on the cheek, and then wriggles to be let go. As always, her hellos are enthusiastic but short. Mycroft puts her back down, and she goes straight back to tormenting her doll. 

John eyes Mycroft. He’s actually glad he has him alone for once because he’s been wanting to ask, “How is it going? With… everything?” 

“The election results are unsatisfactory, as you might have seen.” 

Yes, John did see. But that’s not what he was asking. 

Mycroft knows it, because he hesitates, and then says, “I am sorry, John. I do not have news for you.”

John tries not to wonder about hormone levels and the details, Mycroft won’t say, probably. So he says, “Well, it takes a while, doesn’t it?” 

“Indeed.”

Actually, Mycroft looks pale, too. Tired. 

“Don’t stress too much about it?” It’s common sense, isn’t it? Mycroft needs to relax a bit. “Maybe take some time off?” Thinking about it, John hasn’t known Mycroft to ever do so. Except maybe after Violet was born, but that was only like a week. 

Mycroft smiles, briefly. “I believe the concept is rather foreign to someone in my position.” 

“But you can…” John waves his hand. “Do your _thing_ from a spa, can’t you?” He grins. “Get one of those drinks with a straw? Or a foot rub?” 

Mycroft pulls a face. 

“What, are you ticklish?” John is joking, but… If he didn’t know for sure that Mycroft would say no, John might offer. He briefly thinks about it - digging his fingers into Mycroft’s arches, making him sigh with sensation. 

Mycroft doesn’t answer the question. Instead he says, “As _appealing_ as that sounds, I believe it is not my idea of relaxation, exactly.” 

“You sure? I can totally imagine you with those cucumber slices on your eyes.” 

Mycroft laughs, and then seems a bit startled at himself that he did. “Perhaps it would be wise to keep those thoughts to yourself, John.” 

_Well, those wouldn’t be the only thoughts I’d have to keep to myself._ John blinks. Dammit!

Mycroft must see some of what he’s thinking, because he sobers quickly, and deftly changes the subject to, “Did Violet eat well?” 

John answers him, and they talk on. But he has a point - Mycroft’s overworked, he always seems to be, and now he’s trying to get pregnant with a toddler around as well, no wonder it’s hard. John would bet that he actually doesn’t have fun at all. Ever. So that’s why he says, “I was serious though, take some time off?” 

Mycroft shakes his head. “I appreciate the thought, John.” His eyes seem to agree. “But I cannot.”

“Okay, well, if you need us to take her for a night, just say so.” 

Mycroft nods. “I will. Have a good evening, John.” He lifts Violet again. 

“You, too.” 

 

-

 

John goes out a couple more times. 

And then - and he wasn’t even trying, wasn’t even all that enthused to meet someone new - in a string of terrible dates, there’s suddenly a good one. 

Her name is Mara. She’s thirty-nine, beta, single, and pretty. John doesn’t kiss her, their first date, but he texts her to ask to see her again before she’s even out of the door. 

She made him laugh.

 

 

 

 

 


	44. (Sherlock)

 

 

John has found a woman. 

John shaves before he sees her, and hums in front of the mirror. John wears clothes he thinks make him look young. Sherlock wants to tell him that he looks much better in a jumper, as himself. Sherlock wants to make him stay home, to keep John in Baker Street and never allow him to leave. 

Instead, he says nothing. And goes to bed alone. 

John comes home after two in the morning. He opens the door, carefully. Creeps closer. He’s trying to be quiet, but Sherlock hears him anyway. Sherlock is lying there utterly tense, ready to jump out of bed and deduce it all, what John did, how much he liked it. 

John notices, and says, with a smile in his voice, “You’re not asleep, are you?”

“No.” Sherlock tries not to sound petulant. _You’re not a child. John is not yours. Be grateful he even came back._

John gets in the bed, and reaches for his hand. But no, that’s not enough. Sherlock rolls over, and his whole body bumps into John’s, it’s a shock of legs and knees and a hip and chest. John breathes out, a slow shudder. 

John feels cold. His breath smells like beer. His hair has the scent of a pub, of people and false laughter, of pretence. But his skin smells like _her_. Beta. It’s obvious they had sex again. 

Sherlock feels the deduction hit him like a slow, sickening wave. 

John whispers, “It doesn’t mean anything. You know that, right?” 

Sherlock hears it, but he can’t feel it. He can’t, not with John’s body this close. John might fall in love with her, if he hasn’t already. John might leave him for her. 

John sighs. “What do you want, Sherlock?” He sounds sad. 

_What I want doesn’t matter._ He can’t ask that John never dates, and never has sex anymore. He could beg, Sherlock thinks. _Don’t leave me for her, you’re mine, no one will ever love you the way I do._ But that’s not true, is it? Maybe she’ll love John the way he deserves to be loved. Maybe _she_ won’t be broken. 

John sounds careful. “I can end it.” 

Sherlock isn’t sure if John means it. It doesn’t matter, he has to let him. “No. You’re allowed to. I explicitly said so.” 

“I know, but…” John unconsciously moves closer. 

Sherlock wonders how much John really speaks with his body. How often he is telling him things that he can’t understand. That he won’t, because he’s not always like this, pressed to him. Sherlock noses John’s shoulder. He can smell her on John, still. He has to suppress his rage. How dare she take John! _Please_ him, probably. Much better than Sherlock ever could. 

John’s hand settles on Sherlock’s back, and it rubs back and forth, hesitantly. Ready to be told to stop. John speaks, quietly and closely, “What do you want me to do?” 

_Tell me that you love me. That you’ll always be here._

Sherlock makes himself let go, and rolls away from John’s warmth. There is something closed in his throat. He says, “Nothing. It’s fine.” 

John, after a moment, rolls over so he’s with his back to him, and doesn’t say any more. 

 

-

 

John goes ‘to dinner’ with that women again two days later. 

Sherlock texts Mycroft, “Can Violet sleep here? SH” 

Mycroft replies, “Why? I was planning to pick her up at eight. M” 

“John is on a date. SH” Sherlock holds Violet on his lap, even when she becomes tired. He can feel the warmth of her heavy, sleepy self, and tries to appreciate it. He has Violet, still. 

Sherlock’s phone goes a couple of minutes later, and he grabs it quickly, hoping that it is John. But no, Mycroft. Of course. 

Mycroft’s voice, compassionate. “You are certain you want her to stay over tonight?” There’s the dampened sound of the Diogenes Club office. 

Sherlock shifts Violet on his lap. She is asleep, but only barely, and if he moves her now she’ll wake up. “Yes.” 

“Sherlock…” Again, _sympathy_. Sherlock hates it, he can feel it raise a thousand hackles. _There’s nothing you can do, Mycroft. Why would you even bother. I hate you. Leave me alone._

Mycroft says, extremely carefully, he knows he’s on thin ice, “If you want some company, I… could always come by and stay a while.” 

Sherlock’s first thought is, ‘Why would I ever want that.’ The next, embarrassingly, is the ache of loneliness. Of John _leaving_ him, and he wants, he needs - not Mycroft, but it would be something. To see Mycroft’s gaze turn soft with pity would be as deeply annoying as it would be somewhat comforting. 

But Mycroft needs things, too. To relax, John said so. So Sherlock says, “Take the night off. Go to the symphony. To dinner. _Enjoy._ ” 

Mycroft takes a breath. He says, “I believe all I want to do is sleep.” 

Sherlock feels the same. To curl up in bed, and never come out. “Yes.” 

A slight hesitation. “He does care for you, Sherlock. Deeply, I imagine.” 

Yes, John _cares_. Not enough to stay home, though. “Don’t.” _Don’t talk about John._

“All right.” Mycroft breathes. Then says, too genuinely, “Is there anything I can do for you?” 

_Come over anyway. Come sit here and read a book, pretend I’m not here._ “No.” Sherlock says it with all the petulance of a ten-year-old, he can hear himself, and he hates it. 

Mycroft does not laugh. Instead he offers, “I could have that woman killed, if you like.” 

It’s a bad attempt at humour - something Mycroft has picked up from John. Or maybe just found again, because he did used to laugh more, when they were young. Mycroft used to be a good storyteller, Sherlock can still hear Mycroft’s pirate impression in his head when he tries to. He never managed to delete it. 

“Don’t bother, he’ll just find another.” Also, _that woman_. “Did you have him followed?” 

“Just the CCTV footage. Why, would you like me to?” 

“No.” John on a date is boring. Sherlock has seen it enough himself. The woman will be the same as all others, bland. Normal. The more normal, the more John wants them. And there’s only one reason why, always. “They’re having _sex_.” 

“Yes…” Mycroft’s voice peters out. “People do do that, Sherlock.” 

He sounds a little wistful, Sherlock can’t help but pick up on it. “You could go have some.” Everyone is. Even Mrs. Hudson has a lover, an omega from Birmingham. It’s not been good for her hip, but she seems happy. 

“Hah!” Mycroft does not laugh exactly, but his sound of indignation comes close to it. “And you imagine that I have someone at the ready for that, do you?” 

Sherlock’s never really thought about it. He always assumed that Mycroft doesn’t date because he doesn’t care. “You could.” 

Mycroft sighs. “I am not an easy man to care for, Sherlock. Few have tried and none have succeeded.” And then he sounds surprised at himself that he said so. “Not that it is of any consequence, I am perfectly happy alone.” 

Sherlock remembers thinking that Mycroft was lonely. It was obvious then, when he came back from Serbia, it hung around Mycroft like a cloud. But he’s not anymore now, just like Sherlock isn’t, except… maybe they both are. 

Mycroft isn’t pregnant yet, either. None of this is going _right_.

Sherlock says, “’Night.” 

Mycroft answers, “Good night, Sherlock.” And, “Tell my daughter I will see her tomorrow.” 

Sherlock ends the call. 

He lets Violet sleep on his lap for a while more, and watches her small, pale face. Her mouth relaxed in sleep. Feels her shallow breathing. The damp warmth of her. 

Then he lifts her up, and tucks her into bed. Sherlock is not tired yet, but he curls around her, under the covers, and tries to forget about John. All of it. 

 

-

 

They have a case the next day. 

Sherlock could almost hug Lestrade when he comes by, waving a case file, and says, “Oh, you’re going to love this one! Some guy claimed last week that he was hypnotised into chopping his own leg into bits, and fine, we thought he was crazy…” Lestrade pauses. “But it just happened again, completely unrelated, sixty-three year old woman.” 

Sherlock takes the file, and he can barely hear the rest in his haste to call John at work. “Case!” 

And some part, some tiny part of him had been scared that John would say no. Too tired from sex with that beta last night, or _I have to be at work, it’s important, Sherlock._

But John says, “God, yes!” 

John gets out of work, and shows up at the crime scene with an expectant grin. Sherlock feels - underneath the stream of curiosity and information about the case - relief. If John is here like this, if John looks that excited and happy, then they have that between them still, at least. 

And Lestrade was right. The case is entertaining. Sherlock assumed it was some form of hallucinogen introduced to both of the victims, along with the suggestion by the killer. But there was nothing found in the stomach contents. He figures it out as soon as they have seen both crime scenes, though. Both have a recently used fireplace. 

Sherlock climbs onto the roof of the second house to investigate. 

And John, while there is absolutely no reason for him to come along, does as well. John’s feet are slipping on the wet roof tiles, and he clutches him, grinning. They’re up higher than Sherlock had anticipated, and the wind is roaring around them. 

But yes, there is an empty smoke canister. A sloppy criminal, then. It’s simply a matter of testing it, now. 

John laughs as they see it. He says, “Brilliant, Sherlock, really!” 

The wind and exertion are making John’s face seem flushed and young. John is holding onto his arm steadily. And Sherlock, not sure why he’s doing it, steps closer on the uneven tiles, leans in, and kisses him. 

John makes a sound of surprise. Then winds his arms around him, pulls him close, and kisses back. John’s lips are cold, the skin of John’s cheeks is too, but John is laughing against his lips. Sherlock kisses him, and then again, tries to taste John’s smile, and feel his joy. It feels desperate. _John, I love you._

When he leans back, John is still holding onto him. John’s eyes shine with mirth, and he says, loud enough to be heard over the wind, “What was that for?” 

And Sherlock says, maybe stupidly, but he can feel it so clearly that saying it won’t change a single thing, “I love you.” 

It’s true. It will always be true. 

John steps back, frowns, smiles, and then says, awkwardly - because he is not good at this, because John doesn’t think that it is _easy_ \- “I, um, I do, too.” John eyes him, and there is warmth in his eyes. “I... yeah, love you, too.” 

Sherlock wonders if he should kiss John again. But John looks at their feet and the precarious roof, and says, “Now can we get down before it starts to rain?” 

They manoeuvre their way back to the ladder. John goes first, and Sherlock makes sure not to step on his fingers as they descend. 

Once they’re back on the grass, Sherlock’s knees are trembling a bit. 

Anderson says, sarcastically, “Having fun up there, were you?”

He must have seen them kiss. But Sherlock doesn’t care, he eyes Lestrade. “I was right, aerosol delivery system through the chimney. Check the other crime scene, but it should be the same.” John has the canister wrapped in his handkerchief, and he hands it over to Anderson so he can check it for fingerprints. 

“All right.” Lestrade looks between them. “So, it’s going well then, is it?” He laughs a bit. 

Sherlock wants to reply, but he doesn’t know what to say. Confirm? Deny? Say that John has a girlfriend, and that it’s not what Lestrade thinks? 

John glances at him, and solves it by, oh, taking his hand. John winks at Lestrade, makes sure Anderson sees, too, and says, “Oh, yeah!” 

John holds Sherlock’s hand all the way to the police car. Then lets go so he can get in the car, but once inside of it he sits close, too. 

Sherlock, feeling a bit desperate for the moment not to be gone, for it to stay like this forever, puts a hand on John’s knee. John puts his own hand over it, and keeps it there. 

It feels great. 

Until they’re home, and John says, “Oh, good, I have time to change. I told her I’d be there at seven?” He waits for a reply. 

So Sherlock says, “Yes. Good.” 

Just to see John smile at him, once more, distracted now, before he goes upstairs. 

And leaves again.

 

 

 

 

 


	45. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft will have a birthday soon. Forty-five. 

He never particularly disliked the thought of ageing. Mycroft always considered the increase in knowledge gathered by years lived to be much more valuable than the physical advantages his youth might have afforded him. 

But this… 

The second try failed. 

He is not pregnant, and the doctor could not tell him why. The hormone levels in his blood were high, there is no scientific reason why the implantation did not occur, only that it did not. He is getting older. His body is not as fertile, not as strong, not a great many things. 

It failed him. Again. 

Work is difficult, and Violet does not sleep well, although perhaps that is a response to his own state. 

And he does think about it. Mycroft cannot seem to stop taking stock of himself, to seek the thing that keeps this from him, to isolate the flaw. Is it something he does? Is it something he lacks? Is it stress, as John suggested? It seems ridiculous to even consider it as an option, because he was intensely worried when conceiving Violet, it was the worst possible time. Sherlock had just gotten shot, and there she was. 

While now, he has much to be grateful for. Now it feels as if both he and his life are ready for this. 

And still, it does not happen. 

 

-

 

Mycroft can feel himself be quicker to anger at times, snapping even at Anthea. When he hears Sherlock’s pain at John dating, he sympathises instantly on a visceral level, much more so than he normally would. 

In truth, he is feeling too much of everything. 

He is reminded starkly why he never enjoyed being an omega - why the rushes of hormones in his youth were so very difficult on him, and why he built his character on control. He did so because it was a necessity to suppress his innate sentimentality and weakness. 

This is exactly why he decided to rise past his body in the first place. To be a great mind, instead. 

But this is not an endeavour of the mind. Every day that passes, Mycroft can feel his frustration with himself and his body grow. Perhaps it was insanity to even attempt this. He most certainly never should have told John and Sherlock. At the time he saw no other way than to share it with them, but now it holds such tension, the fact that they are hoping for him to succeed in this. 

Both of them have been understanding and have tried not to press the issue, but Mycroft thinks that he can see it in them, regardless. Is John regretting doing this with him? Would he rather have had children with the woman he is currently dating - yes, Mycroft has kept a close eye on the CCTV, he knows who it is. She seems rather unappealing to him, but then he has rarely found women attractive. 

Mycroft feels anger towards John. Not just a simple brush of frustration at John’s behaviour, but genuine _anger_. Leaving Sherlock as such, while fully within the terms of their relationship, seems idiotic. Cruel. Mycroft could hear the sadness in Sherlock’s voice. The pain that John is causing him. 

And how is it that love, while the most celebrated emotion, is also the one that causes such quiet destruction? 

It hollows people out. It tears them to pieces. Rarely in one instant, but day after day, moment after moment. Like water running over stone, eroding the strongest of materials. 

Mycroft is aware that it is John’s own choice to date, and that it is supported by Sherlock. There is nothing whatsoever he can say. But he finds that he - if given the chance to speak his mind - would have rather a lot to say on the subject. 

Mycroft fully intends to pay the lady in question a little visit and tell her about Sherlock if this continues, but then he bugs one of the restaurants, and hears John mention the name ‘Sherlock’ generously all through the night. John is not keeping his involvement a secret at all. 

Somehow, that feels even worse. 

 

-

 

Mycroft decides to take it a step further for the third attempt. 

He keeps a list of every single thing he eats and drinks, and has it analysed by a renowned dietician. He takes supplements, drinks green seaweed smoothies, and eats raw foods for two meals out of three. He drinks the recommended amount of water. He makes certain to exercise, and to rest as well as possible. 

The thought that his mental state has an impact on it as well does keep on bothering him. Of course he wants this, of course he wants this child! In fact, it is rather terrible to, after John, hear it again from the doctor. “You should take it easy.” As if it is his fault! As if, simply by being himself, he is reducing his chances. 

The doctor also suggests having two embryos implanted for this round. 

Mycroft considers it with care, but he knows the answer nearly as soon as she says so, because he has thought it himself as well. Yes. He will. If by some miracle both embryos would implant, then he can rest more during the pregnancy and work from his bed. He can hire an extra nanny if needed. It would not be easy, but he is willing to take the risk. 

It is a haze, trying to get pregnant. An all-encompassing endeavour that, while not constantly on his mind, constantly seems to be playing in his body. He is eating so well that he even loses some weight, but in spite of it, his stomach remains soft and almost impossibly more pronounced. He can feel the flesh curve under his hand, and he can feel the question there. 

The faint, sad warmth. 

It is enormously frustrating, and he needs to simply _get through this_. He does not know why it is so very hard now, more so than last time. Then, he had been entirely uncertain as to whether he could carry a child, so why did it not feel this difficult? 

But the differences are great. Then, he did not know what it would feel like. Then, he had grand defences against the thought of being a parent, of even caring about such a thing. And now, he feels much more settled, but also more unsteady in this desire. To want is to ache, to desire is to be unhinged. It is so much safer to never reach for a thing at all.

At times, he wishes that he had never done so. 

Mycroft wonders at the person he had been then, if he would have remained childless. The image feels clear in his mind. Safe, orderly. If he did not have a child, he would not nearly trip over toys in his house. Not half-say, half-sing lullabies, or recite farm animal poems and wave good night to the moon. He would not have a living, breathing, miraculous little girl in his arms. One who adores him, who is happy, and healthy. 

She is always there, his daily care and worry in a dozen little ways, but then, when he sees her for what she is, she is still the impossible. 

A daughter.

Mycroft feels guilt, that he looks at her and instead of promising to love only her, he feels the thought of ‘one more.’ He wonders if she feels his insecurity, and his failure. Would she ever feel that she is not enough, later? Of course she is enough. 

She might need to be. 

 

-

 

Sherlock notes, a couple of days before the third implantation, “You’re trying again soon, your levels are high.” 

And Mycroft can lie to him, easily. But then what does that truly accomplish? Sherlock already knows that he is trying. “Yes.” 

Sherlock says, “I can bond with you right before.” 

And there has been so much sacrifice, so much insanity, that Mycroft does not fight for that sliver of privacy, not anymore. What would be the point? So he sees it for the offer it is, looks at Sherlock, and says, “The appointment is at ten AM this Friday. I could stop by here at nine.” 

And Sherlock agrees, with a serious expression. “I’ll be here.” 

It feels like yet another small betrayal to himself. Mycroft was going to suffer this alone, and then tell them the news as some benevolent entity: _I will have this child for you._ But now he needs help, to be steered and assisted in this, and the sheer vulnerability of it is despicable. 

 

-

 

The night before the implantation, Mycroft lies in bed with nervousness creeping over his skin. 

There is one more thing that he can do. One that he has been unwilling to do the other times. His body is raging with hormones, he is ready, and he knows that. But as always, it is his mind that steers him, his thoughts that overlay the dull thrumming of arousal. 

He opens his bedside table, in the dark. And takes what he needs. It feels cold in his hand. 

He is already aroused, there is the smooth, slippery feeling between his buttocks that he washes away every morning and evening and discreetly wipes every time he uses the bathroom these days. 

Tonight, he needs to be glad of it. 

He pushes his pyjama bottoms down, and spreads his legs. Mycroft holds the object, a dildo made to resemble an alpha’s privates in heat, under the covers. He presses the tip to his entrance. 

He wants to go slow, but his body yields to it immediately. As he pushes further, there is a chill that runs through him. His skin rushes in goose bumps. His nipples tighten. His penis lies erect against his stomach, and moves as the dildo presses inside. 

He stops before the knot, pulls it back, and pushes it in again. He sighs, deeply. His balls contract with a tight heat. 

Mycroft pinches a nipple between his forefinger and thumb, and it gives him a shot of desire, stronger than he would have imagined. 

His legs tremble when he pushes the dildo back in, slowly, purposefully. He can imagine there being a man attached to it, one that teases him by going slow. One that wishes to draw out his desire. 

Then out again, a sacrifice, only to push it back in, faster, further. The need to be filled is so acute now he can hardly feel anything else. His whole lower body aches for it. Mycroft has always hated the weakness of it, but there is strength in it as well. The great wave of need, the imperative. It is overreaching, all-encompassing. 

Mycroft pushes the dildo further, and the beginning of the knot stretches him. His breaths are coming fast and shallow. He is moaning lowly, as if this was real. As if there was a partner here to see him, to shush him. To take him in his arms and to bring him to completion. 

He wants it so badly, to be stretched and taken. Mycroft would feel weakened by the desire - a touch, a single touch - but his whole body yearns for it. 

He pulls it out, presses it in again, and imagines another’s face, filled with love. Brimming with the need to come. Another’s voice, urging him on, “Yes, do it, please, I _need_ …” 

And Mycroft pushes the dildo in, takes all of it, hard. The knot stretches him, fills him, and he moans long and low. So close to coming, and yet he does not give into it. He stays like that, still, and feels the stretch. It is such a rare pleasure for him, a rare moment of balance and subjugation. 

And then he pulls it out, and pushes it back, hard. He moves his hips so the hardness of it hits him just right. Mycroft imagines the voice again, urging him on, “Oh yes, do it, come on, now!” 

He leaves his nipple with a last pinch, and throws the sheets off. He turns around, to his hands and knees. 

This position is many things. An embarrassment. A deep longing, and a nod to his true self. Mycroft does not want it, but his body needs it. He lowers his face into the pillows, allows his arse to stand out in the dark, glittering with wetness. 

He pushes the dildo in. He moves his hips, a little, and then in a constant back and forth, up and down. An well-known rhythm of pleasure.

He wraps his other hand around his erection, hot and stiff. He tilts his hips, and he can feel the pressure slam through him, race to its goal. He bucks against it, and moans, muffled by the pillow. 

Mycroft’s hand blurs on his erection, with his other he tries to push the dildo in even deeper, right there, right on that spot. And he moves towards it, elusive, grand, the greatest pleasure. He comes, his inner muscles contracting again and again. Hot, deep spasms of desire around the dildo, semen over his hand and sheets. 

He allows himself to fall down to his side. The change in pressure makes him jerk again, a late wave of pleasure. And another, faint. 

He is out of breath. 

Mycroft’s whole body is radiating heat. His legs already feel stiff from the unusual position. He is not actually in heat, but it is close, this chemical parody of it. 

And he just pretended to be _taken_. 

Mycroft pulls the dildo out slowly, wary of the knot, but it feels amazing, still. The hormones sing through his body. His insides throb with dissipated desire. 

He puts the dildo aside, moves to the other side of the bed, and, before he can think of cleaning up, falls asleep. 

 

-

 

Mycroft knows what day it is the second he wakes. 

He gets up in the dark, cleans the dildo and puts it back, but leaves the sheets. These things can be done by the cleaning staff. 

When he washes, he scoops water between his legs, and is all too aware that he feels wet there. Ready to be filled. He has done everything possible. 

Mycroft goes by work first, to review some select files that cannot wait. And then he is in the car, to Baker Street. Mycroft lets himself in, walks up the stairs, and he can hear by the rumble of voices upstairs that John is home, too. It makes him feel a flush of sorts. 

When he walks in, it is to John and Sherlock at breakfast, although both are dressed. John smiles, “So, the big day?” 

Mycroft did expect that Sherlock would tell John, but he does not exactly wish to name it. “One hopes so.” 

John’s eyes travel over him. His mouth is opened slightly. John’s smile is a warm, living thing, and Mycroft trembles. It is the hormones. He is practically teeming with them. 

Sherlock, at least, seems to be ready. He gets up, and steps close. Mycroft does not need to ask. Sherlock looks at him, and at his nod, he puts a hand to Mycroft’s side, leans over, and licks his neck. Mycroft can feel an entirely inconvenient shudder go through him. 

Distantly, he is glad of John’s presence, because it has always made it less intense. Although it does little today. 

Sherlock breathes in, in a way that sounds entirely too delighted, and Mycroft presses his eyes closed, balls his fists, and tries not to respond when Sherlock’s teeth graze his neck and _claim_ him. It’s a stream of heat, making his whole body radiate. Sherlock bites extra hard, and it feels nothing but right, a righteous thrill, a need satisfied. 

Mycroft does not know how long it takes, surely only a few minutes, but when Sherlock stops and steps back, he feels as if it has been a long, continuous moment of desire. 

Sherlock does not look at him. He goes back to the table. 

John says, the only one at all sane here, “Wow, that looked intense.” 

Mycroft does not know what to say. His voice is hoarse when he says, “It is the hormones, John.”

“Oh, I know.” John says it with glittering eyes. “I can smell it. God, it’s…” He waves his hand. Then adds, “There’s a reason why I’m not standing up here.” 

A reason… Mycroft raises his eyebrows, and tries very hard not to feel a pang of desire at the sheer _thought_. Sherlock looks at John, and John gives him a bit of an impish grin. 

Mycroft breathes, and decides that he needs to go. “… _Yes_ , on that note…” He moves to leave. 

John says, “Hey, I’m sorry if…” He sounds guilty.

He probably feels embarrassed that he even said it, but John can hardly be blamed for not being entirely within his right mind with this amount of hormones around. Mycroft can sympathise. “Do not concern yourself, John, I am aware of the effects of this.” He even accompanies it with a smile, wishing to appear certain that it, in fact, does not matter. 

John’s face is peculiar. It is filled with desire, even as he says, “Good luck.” 

“Thank you.” Mycroft says it automatically. 

Sherlock, having found it in himself to face him again, nods, and Mycroft can see the same in his eyes. 

He leaves.

 

 

 

 

 


	46. (John)

 

 

John watches Mycroft go. He wasn’t lying - he’s as hard as a rock under the table. 

John can barely _think_ after seeing Sherlock’s eyes go wild like that. After seeing him hold on to Mycroft’s shoulder, and bite Mycroft’s neck as if it’s the only thing he wants to do in the whole world. 

Sherlock’s eyes seem glassy. His cheeks are flushed. John tries to keep it together, but he knows he sounds jealous. “So, what does that feel like, then?” 

John expects an answer like ‘good’ or something, Sherlock’s never been much for the flowery descriptions of lust, if he even feels it. But Sherlock shakes his head. His eyes are full of something urgent. “John, I can’t, I…” 

He’s all hot and bothered as well, isn’t he? John can tell. That’s not something anyone would be comfortable with, getting turned on by their brother. Never mind Sherlock, who doesn’t like it at all. 

Sherlock goes to lie on the sofa and closes his eyes. He probably goes to his mind palace, or he’s trying not to respond with a heat of his own, something like that. So John talks his erection down, too. Now that Mycroft’s gone it’s not that difficult. Those hormones he’s on should come with a warning label. 

He tries to read a book instead. 

 

-

 

John gets a text about half an hour later. He takes his phone straight away, thinking it’s Mycroft letting him know how it went. But it’s Mara. John tries not to think about why he’s faintly disappointed. She’s been great, actually. She’s fun. Sweet. 

On their second date it was her who pulled him in and kissed him. And it was good, the kind of kissing that feels like a little tug of electricity, that seems like the beginning of something. 

So yes, on the third date John slept with her. 

To be honest, it was a bit boring. But she’s nice enough, she likes to cuddle and hold him close. She went down on him, too. She used a bit too much teeth and didn’t take him deep enough, but beggars can’t be choosers. John preferred fucking her. To move inside of her. To close his eyes, and just feel it. 

He tried not to think of Sherlock. 

He didn’t always succeed. 

Mara’s text says, “You coming over tonight? I can cook. Xxx” 

John would rather stay here, really. But they don’t have a case on. Violet will be here in the afternoon, but besides that… John eyes Sherlock. Chances are he doesn’t move from the sofa all day. So yeah, why not? “Sounds great, I’ll be there by six. John” 

“You can spend the night? Xxx” 

John hesitates. He likes coming home to Sherlock. But then, is that not fair to her? John raises his voice and asks, “Sherlock?” He doesn’t want to pull Sherlock out of whatever trance he’s in, but if he’s just thinking he might hear it. 

Sherlock doesn’t respond. 

So fine, yeah, why not. John writes, “Okay, I’ll bring a toothbrush!” And condoms, too, he thinks. Last time she didn’t have many left.

 

-

 

The nanny drops Violet off, and John takes her out by himself, glad of the chance to get some air. 

When it’s time to change, John drops Violet on top of Sherlock, who seems surprised that there’s suddenly a toddler on his chest. “Here, I’m going out.” 

“Oh.”

“I’m actually, um, I’m staying the night. That okay?”

Sherlock blinks. “Of course, John.” He has a way of saying it where it sounds like he doesn’t give a shit. John hates it. But then Sherlock’s eyes always seem so damn sad, too. 

John doesn’t know, sometimes. What he’s doing. Why. 

He pulls the door shut, and he already wishes he’d stayed. That he could play a bit with Violet, that they could order food in, that he could see Mycroft and ask him how it went today. 

But instead, John takes the tube over to Mara’s. 

Mara looks great when she opens the door. Lipstick and a nice dress. She smells good, too. John kisses her straight away, pushes her up on the kitchen counter, takes her pants off and fingers her while the pots and pans hiss and boil next to them. She laughs and squirms. Eventually, she scrambles away, still laughing, to turn them off before they get back to it. John fucks her then.

After the mildly-burned dinner they watch some TV. Then John crawls into bed with her, lies beside her, and tries to feel anything at all. 

She’s soft, her skin. Her curves. She fits in his arms. 

She’s nothing like Sherlock, where every touch is a fight. But worth so, so much more. 

When Sherlock kissed him on that rooftop, John thought he’d burst in two with love for that insane bastard of a man. 

And yet. 

John knows that he has to stop looking at this as an either-or thing, because he has both, now. He has Sherlock to go home to and Mara to sleep with, so he should feel like the luckiest damn bloke in the world, right? 

He doesn’t. John’s not sure why, but it’s _not_ both. When he’s with Sherlock he wants sex, and when he’s here in Mara’s bed he would give anything to be in Sherlock’s instead. 

John doesn’t sleep a wink. Mara does fall asleep, all warmth and closeness and heavy breaths, and John hates it. Even though he and Sherlock habitually sleep with a kid in the middle, it always feels much easier than this does. He can barely breathe. 

Eventually, John manoeuvres her away a bit and looks at his phone. It’s one in the morning. 

He’s bored. 

He’s not leaving - that’s too rude. But he can text, can’t he? John glances at Mara. She’s fast asleep, as far as he can tell. 

He tilts the screen to himself and writes, “Can’t sleep, what are you up to? JW” Then, “Thinking of you. JW” Which is too romantic, probably. Proper sappy. John sends it before he can change his mind, and then puts the phone away. 

Mara does know about Sherlock. John told her that Sherlock’s his roommate and best friend. That they’re raising a kid together. He’s even told her about Mycroft. But he couldn’t find the words for ‘I’m dating Sherlock but we never touch.’ Instead he said, ‘We’re very close.’ and ‘Sherlock’s an alpha, yeah, but he doesn’t do that, sex.’ She listened, and accepted it, for now. 

But it’s not going to be enough forever, is it?

What the hell is he doing? He’s not cheating - not really, anyway. But then why does it all seem so… 

John sighs.

His phone buzzes suddenly, startling him. John grabs it, hoping the sound didn’t wake her up. The screen is brightly lit, and he has to squint to read it. “I am thinking of you, too, John. SH” 

John feels a brush of warmth in his chest. 

Mara turns around and says, sleepily, “Everything okay?” 

John sees his chance, here. “It was Sherlock. There’s, um, a case.” She might as well get used to that, right? That’s how he knows whether she’s worth keeping, probably. If she can deal with that. 

“You have to go?” 

She doesn’t sound too upset, so John tries. “Don’t have to, but I want to.” _There._ Great way to test her. 

She says, “You know, I like how honest you are.” Mara presses a kiss to his lips and turns over. “Go on, I sleep better alone anyway.”

John gets out of the bed feeling as if he escaped something much bigger. At the same time though… He looks back at Mara. He’s almost annoyed that she didn’t get angry about it. That she didn’t chuck him out. Does she not give a shit, either? 

John wouldn’t mind a bit of that from Sherlock, for Sherlock to yell at him when he leaves. Growl and say that he’s _his_. That John can’t leave and have anyone else, ever. That he _needs_ him. John doesn’t even know what he’d do, then. Whether he’d be angry right back and shout, “Well, if you need me so much, why don’t you fuck me?!” 

It never happens. They don’t fight. 

John finds his clothes on the floor, takes them to Mara’s tiny bathroom and tries to get dressed without kicking over some shampoo bottles. She has an awful lot of them, set up by the bath. There’s a lipstick kiss on the mirror. John sees himself in it, his lined face, old, tired. He avoids his own gaze. 

He walks out, and manages to hail a cab on the main road. He looks at his phone and types, “I’m coming home. Keep the bed warm for me, yeah? JW”

John holds his phone the whole way back, but Sherlock doesn’t reply. 

John pays, walks into Baker Street, and it’s not some gigantic relief be back. Nor some sense of it all being over, now. There’s unease here, too. 

Sherlock is still awake, he turns in bed as soon as John arrives. Actually, he doesn’t look asleep at all. John lowers his voice, “You’re not sleeping?”

“No. You told me to warm the bed.” From anyone else that would be a joke, but Sherlock is serious. He’s in John’s spot, and then rolls over to his own. 

John laughs. “Thanks.” 

He undresses to his underwear, crawls in, and yes, it is warm. John finds Sherlock’s hand, takes it, and then lifts it up over the covers and kisses it. 

Sherlock - unexpectedly - leans in and shyly kisses him. A soft kiss, that John feels all the way to his toes. “Good night, John.”

John closes his eyes, and breathes.

 

 

 

 

 


	47. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock knows that he should be grateful. He is, most of the time. When John sleeps next to him. When John reaches out, and touches him just enough. When John smiles. 

Except that John leaves several nights a week now, and it doesn’t stop hurting. Sherlock thought that he would get used to it - logically, it makes perfect sense. John needs sex, so he should get it. 

But it feels terrible to see John go. 

And John doesn’t seem that satisfied, either. Now that he is having sex regularly - and he definitely does, Sherlock can always smell it on him - he would think that John would be content. But he seems not much different from before. 

He still grumbles about going to work. He still sighs and complains. 

He still looks at him with badly-disguised longing in his eyes. 

Sherlock knows it is dangerous to give into it. _Sex._ That every time he tries, it breaks him open in some new, terrible way. He would rather avoid the tangle of emotions and sensations altogether, but maybe… Maybe they should try again. 

 

-

 

And then John asks him, “Sherlock…” 

Sherlock opens his eyes. He was contemplating a case Lestrade emailed him, petty crime but slightly interesting. 

“When you bond with Mycroft, you, um...” John’s face pulls. “ _React_ to it, don’t you?”

Sherlock doesn’t see why he should lie about it. “Yes.” It doesn’t say anything about desire. Or love, or anything like that. John must know that. 

Or doesn’t he? Sherlock eyes him quickly. John doesn’t think that he likes that better, does he? Sherlock despises it, that urge to push Mycroft down and _take_ , no. 

Just to be sure, Sherlock says, “It doesn’t mean anything, John. It’s simply a physical reaction to the hormones he’s on now.” 

John, luckily, smiles a bit. “Yeah, I know.” He hesitates. Then says, “You like the bonding bit, though?” 

“Hm.” 

John seems to know that he’s underplaying it. “It’s just that, I wonder if you…” John smiles his ‘I’m a bit embarrassed to say this’ smile. “Would you give it a try, with me? Some time?” 

Sherlock frowns. “We can’t bond.” 

He wants to. He would want to so very badly, but it’s not biologically possible. John knows that. 

“Yeah. I know.” John sighs. “It’s, I’ve been looking at you two doing that for years now and I always… Never mind.” He looks away. 

Sherlock thinks about it. He could nose John’s neck, and search for a scent there. The urge to do so is there often, he always pushes it away, considers it useless, but he could. John is not an omega, of course. It wouldn’t do anything. But if John wants him to... 

“You want me to…” Sherlock swallows. The words feel heavy in his mouth. “To bond with you?” 

Sherlock feels struck by John asking for this. If John wants to be his bonded, no matter whether it’s pretend, it would still be a sign. Something important.

“Yes?” John shrugs. “You don’t have to, obviously, it was just a thought.”

Sherlock throws him a slowly growing smile. “John, I… _yes_.” 

“All right.” John turns around on the sofa to show his neck. His voice sounds like he’s smiling when he says, “Give it a go, then.” 

Sherlock’s mouth feels a bit dry. His heart is pounding. It feels like it should be a momentous thing. Something important, and not just something that happens in the middle of the living room because John is curious. But it doesn’t matter. 

Sherlock rises, and goes to sit next to him on the sofa feeling as if he is in a dream of sorts. He reaches out his hand, and touches John’s nape. 

Sherlock can hear John’s soft exhale. He leaves his fingers there, and leans in closer. John smells just like he always does - faintly beta. Sherlock inhales deeply. Then presses his lips down and licks. John tastes like skin - warm and smooth. A little salty. 

John shifts. He seems tense. 

Sherlock opens his mouth, and presses his teeth to John’s neck. He doesn’t bite down. Instead, he gently presses his teeth there, and then licks. Sherlock sighs against John’s neck. He lingers some more, and then lets go. 

It wasn’t bonding. Not even a little. 

John’s holding perfectly still, but his hands are balled into fists. Now Sherlock leans back, he can see that every muscle in John’s back is tight. Sherlock asks quickly, “Not good?” Did John expect something more? 

John’s voice cracks. “Oh, it was.” John looks back. His cheeks are flushed. “Yeah, that’s... really something.”

“It was arousing you?” Sherlock isn’t sure he needs to ask. John’s pupils are enlarged. Sherlock can’t take his pulse, but he would bet that it is elevated. 

“Sherlock, I had an alpha _biting my neck_ , what do you think?” 

Sherlock tries to see whether John is hard. John follows his eyes and says, sounding resigned, “Sorry.” And then, “You want me to go upstairs and...?”

Sherlock puts a hand on John’s neck again. He traces his nail where he just licked, it’s still wet with spit. John breathes out in a rush. “No.” This is perfect. John should masturbate, and Sherlock can bite him again during, it will almost be like bonding. “Do it here.” 

John glances at him. “You’re sure?” 

“Yes.” Mostly. Remembering how much John likes to be spoken to, Sherlock says, “I want you to touch yourself, John.” 

John doesn’t hesitate. He opens the buttons of his trousers and pushes them down. He lifts his arse, and pulls his underwear over it, pushes it down to his knees, and sits back. 

Sherlock is not sure if it’s the idea of bonding that’s sexual to John, or if it was just the closeness that aroused him, but this feels important. He wants to do it right. Or at least as well as he can. Sherlock tries, feeling a bit unsure, “I’m bonding to you.” 

John smiles, and starts touching himself. “Yeah?” 

Sherlock isn’t sure why, but he likes saying it. Even though he’s aware it isn’t entirely true, John asked him to pretend, didn’t he? “You’re mine now.” His voice sounds odd. 

John makes a low sound in the back of his throat, and moves his hand over his erection, obviously enjoying this. “Am I?”

Sherlock leans over and presses his teeth to John’s neck again. He gives him a quick bite. Then says into John’s ear, “Yes.” Sherlock feels a rush of something heated as he says it. It feels right. He’s always wanted to say it. 

John shifts. Sherlock’s legs have opened to lean closer to John, so it has the effect of John’s arse and lower back pushing against Sherlock’s crotch. Sherlock ignores it, and sucks a small circle on the reddening, wet skin of John’s neck. 

John’s arm is moving back and forth as he pulls himself off quickly. It won’t take very long, it never does for John. Sherlock can smell him clearly already. 

Annoyingly, Sherlock can feel some heat building for himself as well. He knows the desire that comes with bonding and this isn’t it, but still it’s close enough to it that his body is happy to pretend, apparently. Association, conditioning? Genetic imprint? Sherlock pushes the thoughts away, and presses soft, closed-mouthed kisses to John’s neck. 

John glances back at him and licks his lips. “Tell me what you’d do to me?” 

“Bond to you.” Obviously that is the fantasy, but Sherlock finds he enjoys saying the words. Hearing them be spoken. 

“Hm,” John says encouragingly, while he traces his own thigh. 

“Turn you around. Have you on your hands and knees.” Sherlock isn’t sure whether that’s just the picture that comes with bonding, or whether it is what he actually wants. It doesn’t matter, he will never do it. And John _groans_. 

Sherlock makes a small movement with his hips, and yes, his flesh is swollen and hard there. His trousers feel tight and almost painful. 

John grinds back against him immediately. “Sherlock…” 

Sherlock moves back to John’s neck and bites, focuses all his frustration and need right _there_. It’s a great relief, but John protests, “Ow, easy!” 

John doesn’t sound upset, but Sherlock’s heart pounds. He can’t hurt John. He can’t be an alpha, he can’t take him. It’s just a fantasy, Sherlock reminds himself. Just the thought. He would never actually do that. And John _asked_ for it. So Sherlock gives in and says what’s already on his tongue, waiting to be said, “I would take you, John.” 

And then bites him again. 

John’s whole body tenses. Sherlock can feel the moment John comes, the shudder that runs through him. 

And then the slow un-tensing. John falls back and leans into him as a heavy weight. 

Sherlock puts an arm over John’s chest and holds him there. He nuzzles John’s neck on instinct. Breathes in John’s musk in the air.

John looks back with a soft smile. “Sherlock…” He seems thrilled. Sherlock lowers his arms. John can go now. 

He doesn’t. Instead he says, “That was amazing.” John shakes his head and grins. “Jesus.” John touches the back of his neck and checks for blood. There is none. Sherlock didn’t break the skin, he knows he didn’t, he was careful. 

Sherlock shifts his hips a bit. His erection is throbbing. 

John can feel it, and he looks at him with a flash of uncertainty. 

Sherlock knows that if he says, ‘leave it,’ John will do that, and it will be okay. But it’s been a long time since he’s come. That’s why he responded like that to Mycroft as well. It’s been weeks, he should. John would like to see it, probably. So Sherlock sits up a bit.

John immediately shifts to the side. 

There is come on John’s hand, and a bit on his trousers, Sherlock sees. 

Sherlock puts a hand on his own crotch and John’s eyes follow it. “Are you going to…?” John licks his lips. 

Sherlock doesn’t know what he wants. Just that it feels uneasy, and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t know how to say that, so he says, “I’m not sure.”

John nods immediately. “Yeah, of course, whatever you want to do.” He frowns. “Or what you want me to do. If you want me to touch you I will, or just watch, or... it’s all fine, okay?” 

He seems serious, and Sherlock feels a thrill of love for him. _John._ John who can have so much better, but who still seems excited for this. For him. 

Sherlock opens his trousers and pushes them off. The sudden freedom feels like a relief. He stands up and manoeuvres his underwear over his erection, too. He pushes it over his knees, then takes it off along with his trousers and socks. If he does come, it’ll be a mess. 

John is sitting back, looking at him as if he’s something amazing. Special. 

Sherlock feels ridiculous, actually, standing here without his pants and with a massive erection poking out from under his shirt. But John lets his eyes trail over him appreciatively. 

Sherlock sits down again. He’s not sure about touching himself. His skin feels magnified, as if every touch there would be too much. It’s cold, his legs have goose bumps. 

John sees his hesitation, and offers, “You want to bite me again?” 

Sherlock nods. 

John pulls his pants back up, wipes the worst of his come onto them, and shuffles back to sit close. 

Sherlock buries his nose into John’s neck and breathes him in. Then wraps his hand around his erection, meaning to deal with it fast. The sensation of touch shoots through him immediately, and John must be able to feel his twitch, because he says, “Hmm, like that.” 

Sherlock thrusts into his hand. He leans his face close to John’s neck and closes his eyes. He smells John. He wants to have him close. Feel the vibration of John’s voice against his face and chest. That’s all he wants to get through this. Through the burn of it. 

“I’m yours now, you know.” 

John sounds as if he’s joking, and far-away, but the thought centres right in Sherlock’s stomach. It makes him wrap his hand around himself tighter, and pant to John’s neck. 

John feels the change in rhythm, because he goes on, more confidently, “I’m all yours, Sherlock.”

Sherlock squeezes harder. The faster he comes, the faster this is over. This burning, this longing… 

But John suddenly moves to look at him. “Can I turn around?”

 _No!_ Sherlock breathes, and leans back. He nods. 

John turns to sit on his knees. He looks at the hand that Sherlock has on himself, and then at his face. John moves closer, leans over him, and presses a kiss to his neck. Sherlock shudders.

John says, “Yes, like that.” 

Sherlock closes his eyes, and strokes himself again. 

Sherlock can’t see, but he can feel the edge of John’s jumper brush his knuckles. It’s bizarrely arousing, that little scratch. The warmth of John’s breathing is near his ear. John hums, “Just like that.” 

John strokes his cheek, and Sherlock turns his face to John’s hand. Sherlock opens his mouth, and on some instinct licks John’s hand to taste him. John gives him his fingers and sighs as Sherlock sucks them in. They feel full in his mouth. 

Sherlock’s hand is pulling, the tension near-impossible to bear. Almost, so close... 

John says, “Yes, let go.” 

It’s John’s words, the nearness of him, the taste, that make him push into it. Sherlock comes with a surprised groan. Come jets out of him, onto John, his legs. It’s wet and hot and he doesn’t care - he pulls himself off to John’s excited, “ _Yes!_ Sherlock...” 

John pulls his fingers back. Then moves away a bit, and leaves a careful space between them. 

Sherlock is lying back, now, still shivering. He’s sweating, too. He never liked this. The stickiness and overwhelming blankness of it all. John’s eyes travel over him. “You okay?” 

Sherlock isn’t sure. His brain only comes back slowly. He feels raw. Used. He looks at John. “We bonded.” The words feel foreign on his lips, but it’s true, they did. Not really, it can’t be real, it’s a joke. But it almost was. 

“Well, as good as.” John smiles. It’s more to humour him than anything else, Sherlock thinks. 

Bonds are supposed to be life-changing. For forever. 

But this won’t be. 

John isn’t his.

 

 

 

 

 


	48. (Mycroft)

 

 

The third implantation is a haze. 

Mycroft goes back to work afterwards, since there really is no reason to take the day off. 

He doesn’t sleep that night. He is aware that even if there is a difference in his body temperature in the morning, it truly will not mean anything, but he catches himself trying to feel it, somehow. Trying to connect his mind to his body and to find out whether it is there, whether it worked, whether his body will support this life. Or, god help him - both lives. 

He gets out of bed around four AM, still not having slept. His mind is racing with thoughts, complications, _worry_. 

So he works. 

Mycroft is sitting behind his computer, wrapped in a thick dressing gown and pyjamas at five in the morning, when the baby monitor shows Violet crying wildly. He goes to her room, opens the door to her cries, and asks, “Violet? What’s wrong?” 

She doesn’t stop, so he lifts her sweaty and teary form out of her small bed. He wipes her snotty nose. He changes her, wraps her in a blanket, and takes her downstairs. Mycroft sits her on his lap in the library and holds her. She does not fall asleep again, but she does calm down. She plays with his fingers, still occasionally sniffling. 

Mycroft cannot stop the deluge of thoughts. If this does not work, will he try again? For how long? Is it insanity to keep on trying past his forty-fifth birthday? At what point does one give in? And if it was successful, will he scale back on work? The risk of a miscarriage isn’t insubstantial. 

He, in that moment, deeply despises the thought. The _frailness_ of some cells inside of him right now, either dividing into life, or dying off. 

By the time that the nanny comes over, it feels as though both Mycroft and Violet have been awake endlessly. Mycroft goes to work with burning eyes and what feels like a low-grade fever. 

He does not know whether or not he is pregnant.

 

-

 

The next couple of days pass in much the same way. 

His thoughts wander wildly between either option, and his body feels swollen with promise. Hormonal, uneven and strange. 

Violet is either going through a bout of bad dreams, or she is influenced by Mycroft’s own stress, because she goes back to waking up every night. Mycroft asks Sherlock to take her again to see if she might sleep better there, which she does not. Mycroft misses her deeply that night, so he keeps her at home the next. It is better to have some company in his nightly wanderings. To have another to care for, a daughter to hold and to remind him that he is so very fortunate already. 

Mycroft goes to Baker Street, and Sherlock looks him over and attempts to _smell_ him. Which makes John laugh, but Mycroft feels a harsh shift of frustration and he bursts out, “I don’t KNOW, Sherlock!”

He is aware that it was too forceful, because Sherlock takes a step back and eyes him. John asks, “You okay?” 

Mycroft breathes, and tries to control the wave of unevenness. “My apologies.” 

Sherlock is not to blame for thinking that he can invade his personal space like that, not when they have been doing this for such a long time now. But Mycroft already feels such pressure on his body, such tenseness, he cannot stand another second of scrutiny. 

“I am feeling rather…” Mycroft tries to find the words for this twisting, burning upheaval of his mind. “…irritable.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker over him with concern. Mycroft sees that, too, the fact that an angry snap of his elicits concern now, and not anger right back from Sherlock. “The change in hormones?” 

Yes, he stopped with the injections the day of the implantation. But it is mainly that this is taking so long. Mycroft is not certain why he is admitting this to them. “It is quite frustrating, to have to wait for the results.” 

John immediately says, “Oh, god yeah, I can imagine.” 

And Sherlock nods seriously.

Mycroft is again struck by the two of them, and the front of concern they make. How very much they both seem to want to know these things. To be involved, to discuss this, while he himself would prefer to never say anything at all. 

“You’ll let us know as soon as you do?” John asks. 

Mycroft is not certain what to say. He cannot imagine that being a good idea at all. Either he will have to tell them bad news, or, if it is positive, he will have to caution them extensively. Then they will hope for something that might never succeed. He might have to tell them some weeks later that he lost the pregnancy. 

No. 

After a moment he says, “It is rather private.” Mycroft considers it. “I can understand your interest, of course.” It is John’s child as well, and Sherlock will be involved, so he should explain, “But even if the news is positive, the chances of success will still be low. I would not want to create any false hope.” 

“We know the odds.” 

Sherlock recites, “There is a sixty-two percent chance of first trimester pregnancy loss after the age of forty-five.”

John adds, “Yeah, he took out the text books again.” 

Still, knowing is not the same as hearing it and then having to let go of the thought. Mycroft nods.

He does not make any promises. 

 

-

 

Mycroft waits the exact prescribed seven days and then goes in to have his blood drawn. It will be both to test for pregnancy and his body’s liver enzymes. Whether he can even try again. 

He knew he was pregnant with Violet from a home pregnancy test, and perhaps there was some charm in that moment, but this time around all he truly wants is certainty. 

Two days later, there is the appointment, and Mycroft can deduce it from the doctor’s face as soon as he walks in. He takes a painful breath that feels like an elastic band snapping in his chest, and then he sits down and says, “I take it it was not successful?” 

She smiles a practiced smile. She does not truly care, why would she? “I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, your pregnancy test was negative.” 

“I see.” 

She tilts her head and says with studied compassion, “How are you feeling?”

“Perfectly well, thank you.” It does not even feel like a lie. Mycroft is used to failure, after all. These things happen to everyone of great ambition. He is flexible, he is capable, this does not harm him in any realistic way. He did not lose anything. There simply never was, and that should be easy enough to deal with. 

The doctor is eyeing him carefully for a reaction.

She expects him to burst into tears, Mycroft thinks. She expects anger, or despair. Instead he asks, “Are my liver enzyme levels low enough to support a fourth try?”

She moves back, and takes the file with a sigh. “I’m sorry, no.” She shows him the results of his latest blood work. 

The numbers briefly blur together before Mycroft focuses and tries to see each for what they are, and what can be done. “What would you recommend?” 

“To stay off the hormones for at least a month, and then to test again.” She looks at him kindly. “Unless you would like a longer break.” 

Mycroft does not have time to lose, and he is achingly aware of that fact. “A month will be sufficient.” 

“All right.” She nods and makes a note in the file. “You can see the receptionist on the way out for an appointment.” 

Mycroft gets up, a faint feeling in his body. A disconnect, as if he is nothing but a head walking on stilts. 

“And Mr. Holmes?” 

He looks back. “Yes?” 

“We’re not done fighting for this if you don’t want to be. You know that.” 

Mycroft nods, and leaves. 

When he walks through the long corridor of the hospital, he breathes down whatever emotion he might be feeling. There is no reason to despair. There is no use in it. Either this will happen or not. His emotional involvement will not make a difference at all. In fact, it might be just that which is keeping this from him, so Mycroft makes a precise effort to let it fade away until it does not touch him. 

He goes to work.

 

-

 

Mycroft deals with a meeting with several MPs. Then with an agent that was selling state secrets on the black market and now needs a certain amount of persuasion to give up her contacts. He works with intense focus. 

Anthea even remarks on it. “Your daughter sleeping better, sir?” 

Mycroft simply tilts his head in acknowledgement, and goes on. 

And on. 

He is aware that he will need to go to Baker Street. There are already several texts from John that he has glanced at and then let dissipate in his mind. 

This is exactly what he did not wish to face. The disappointment for others. Mycroft can control his own emotions perfectly, but he cannot do the same for Sherlock’s and John’s. They are both capable of much more pain than he is, Mycroft imagines. 

Eventually, he does go. He feels tired, the type of exhaustion that seems to gather on his shoulders for weeks on end, that seeps through to his spine and pulls him down. Even walking up the stairs feels like a great effort.

Mycroft opens the door. John has Violet lying next to him on the sofa, she’s kicking her legs at him and he’s trying to catch them and tickle her while she giggles wildly. Sherlock appears from his room. 

John looks up and smiles questioningly. Sherlock walks closer. 

Violet raises her arms at him. “Fah! Look!” 

Mycroft swallows, and steps past John’s legs to take her. He lifts her, and marvels for a second at how heavy she is getting. How much of a little person and no longer a baby, especially as she wraps her legs around his side and easily sits on his hip. 

Mycroft looks at her in lieu of looking at either John or Sherlock. Violet’s eyes are a darker colour than Sherlock’s, more like his own. She has a head of thin curls. A sharp nose. Fair skin, and chubby cheeks. She is _his_ , his child. 

Mycroft blinks, aware that his vision has gone somewhat blurry, and that there is a press in the back of his throat. He feels suspended in this moment. Before he says the words. 

John, however, makes a sound and stands up. “It didn’t…?”

Mycroft breathes in, and faces him. John’s eyes are sympathetic. It is the last thing Mycroft wishes to see, and yet he cannot look away from him. “It did not, no.” 

Sherlock breathes somewhere behind him, and touches his shoulder. Mycroft turns to see him and says, “I am sorry, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock tightens his grip on his shoulder and leans in, a silent comfort. Mycroft can feel it in his stomach. _I am so sorry, brother mine, but perhaps this dream of yours will not come true. I might never have another child._

John says, “Hey, it’s fine…”

It is not _fine_. Mycroft has never understood the thought behind saying that. There is no need for the universe to constantly be in balance. There is hurt and suffering all around, it is the human condition. It is what people do to themselves, and to one another. To be alive is to hurt unbearably. 

Sherlock is still touching him. It is a sign of a bond that these past few years have formed. One that Mycroft longed for his entire adult life. He does not wish to lose Sherlock, ever. To disappoint him so. 

Violet is in Mycroft’s arms. She is looking between the three of them and, perhaps feeling the mood, she stays strangely subdued. 

John lets his hand connect to Mycroft’s arm as well. Mycroft can feel it as a shock and breathes in, quickly. He should put a stop to this. He has never been comfortable with displays of affection, and it is not needed. He is perfectly well. 

But John somehow assumes that his touch is wanted, because he puts one arm over Mycroft’s where he is holding Violet. Then the other to his side, and… holds him. Mycroft can feel the strange pressure of John’s body, and it releases something hot behind his eyes. He closes them, and breathes a shivering breath. 

Even worse, Sherlock awkwardly moves behind him and holds him, too. Mycroft can feel himself give into this, the touch, the warmth. He has not been hugged like this as an adult. Not in many years. He keeps his eyes closed, but yet he cries, a brief sting. 

And then he pulls away abruptly. 

It is too much. 

John takes Violet from him. Sherlock’s touch leaves him, and Mycroft looks down, finds his handkerchief with irritatingly unsteady hands, and wipes his face. He blows his nose. It takes a couple of moments, shame pressing hard on his chest, before he can look either of them in the eye. 

Sherlock is swallowing down some tears, too. 

John is keeping his back to them and bounces Violet on his arm, but Mycroft can tell by the set of his shoulders that he is emotional as well. 

“Well.” Mycroft is relieved to note that his voice sounds steady, at least. “Please do not concern yourself.” He starts looking for Violet’s bag, so they can go. 

John says, “Mycroft…” 

There is kindness in his voice, John wishes to soothe and comfort. But no. Mycroft faces him and says, “I am perfectly fine, John, thank you.” And then, “Where is Violet’s giraffe?” 

John helps him find it, and Sherlock gives him a small nod as he leaves.

Mycroft is not certain if he is relieved or not, when he walks away. Holding Violet.

 

 

 

 

 


	49. (John)

 

 

After Mycroft leaves, there’s a silence between them. 

John sits down on the sofa and lets Sherlock process it on his own for a minute. Sherlock eventually says, “That was the third try.” 

“It sometimes takes years, Sherlock.” It does, John has seen it happen often enough. Having babies is not an easy deal. 

“We don’t have _years_.” Sherlock walks off in a huff. 

John stays there. Sitting, staring at nothing. No, they don’t. Maybe it’s not going to happen, then. And if it doesn’t, he’ll just have to deal with it. Not having a kid. He never was going to before this, so it shouldn’t be too hard to get back to it. 

John’s heart breaks for Mycroft, though. 

John never thought in a million years that he’d see Mycroft like that. Or that he’d ever _hug_ Mycroft. It felt familiar, in a way. The rough wool of Mycroft’s coat. His tall, thin shape. The scent of omega and expensive aftershave. 

John eyes his phone and thinks about texting Mycroft, but then there’s probably nothing to say that he’d want to hear. 

He thinks about going to be with Sherlock next, but then he doesn’t know what to do for the best there, either. 

Also, John was supposed to go over to Mara’s tonight. He takes his phone to text her, “Had some bad news. I’m staying here. Rain check?”  
John puts it aside and doesn’t even wait for her reply. He gets up and goes to Sherlock’s room. 

Sherlock’s lying on the bed, turned away from him. 

John knows better than to touch him. He just takes his shoes off and lies down on the other side of the bed. John reaches out his hand to the space between them. Sherlock, after a minute, takes it. 

They don’t talk. 

 

-

 

John does make it up to Mara. The next night, he goes down on her just minutes after he’s walked in the door and then fucks her. 

It’s getting better the more they do it. She’s learning what he likes, and so is he - he can get her off at least twice now if he tries. She seems fine with something completely casual, which is exactly what he needs. 

Sherlock’s a whole different world, of course. John was shocked at how hot it was, playing at bonding. To see Sherlock lose it like that was amazing, it was probably the best sex they’ve ever had. But John’s starting to know him now. Right after that, Sherlock pulls back. He doesn’t even want a touch, or to be close at all. 

So John doesn’t push it. 

Nothing more happens. But still, John thinks he handled that all right. Especially when a couple of days later Sherlock hesitantly leans close again, sniffs him, and presses a small kiss to John’s neck that makes him shudder. 

In all, it was good. 

Despite feeling like whenever they take a step forward, there’s always two back again. 

 

-

 

Mycroft doesn’t mention the whole pregnancy thing for weeks. John doesn’t ask him, either. 

On a Sunday where Sherlock’s deep into his mind palace about an old abduction case, John texts Mycroft and asks, “Any chance you and Violet want to go for a walk in the park? It’s sunny out. JW” 

He is expecting to be turned down. Mycroft probably has something else to do on his one day off a week. But then again, the times that John has asked him over - usually because Mrs. Hudson’s baked a cake or something - Mycroft always says yes. Still, this is different. It’s just John himself, and they see each other all the time. 

But the thing is, John doesn’t have that many friends himself. 

He could go be with Greg and Molly and feel like the third wheel all day, faintly jealous of their perfectly normal life. Mike’s busy with his kids on the weekends. Even Mrs. Hudson’s got ‘a fellow’. And John is home with Sherlock, staring at the walls. 

He could call Mara, but he’s not horny and they really don’t have that much in common. 

So he asks Mycroft, who replies, “Where would you like to go? MH” 

John was thinking just Regent’s Park, but then Violet does love them all. John’s not sure whether that’s the result of taking her out all the time as a baby and she just grew into it, or whether she’s really that fascinated with trees and grass and water by nature. It’s pretty much her number one thing to do. Especially if she can run around and get dirty. So he suggests, “St. James’ Park? JW”

And again, Mycroft surprises him with, “I will meet you at the entrance in an hour. MH.” 

John says to Sherlock, “I’m going out. With Mycroft, we’re taking Violet to the park, you want to come?” 

Sherlock hums, but he probably didn’t actually hear the question. John writes him a note just in case, leaves it on the table, and then sets off. 

There’s a weak, watery sun, but the air’s still chilly. John’s glad he wore a scarf. He’s a bit early, but he’s happy enough to wait. 

Mycroft walks up, Violet on his hip and already struggling to be put down, and John is reminded that they don’t do this a lot at all. Actually, he’s never seen Mycroft out anywhere with her. 

As soon as Violet sees him, though, she yells excitedly. John takes her from Mycroft, gives her a kiss, and then lets her down, and keeps a hold of her hand. 

“John.” Mycroft smiles as well. He takes Violet’s other hand and they keep her between them, which is a bit of a struggle because she is entirely too happy about being out. Mycroft notes, “I believe she was quite ready to go outside.” 

John’s curious. “Do you usually take her to the park on Sundays?” 

“No.” Mycroft seems slightly ashamed. “I do not exactly enjoy it myself.” 

“Yeah, well, the trick is…” They walk to the little square with ducks, and John lets her go. “Let her have company.”

They watch her toddle excitedly over to another child of maybe four or five and take his hand. The kid doesn’t seem to be too interested in Violet, but he does pull her along, and they play for a bit.

Mycroft notes, “She has a well-developed sense of social interaction.” He sounds searching, as if he’s asking for an opinion. 

John looks at him. “You were worried about that?” 

“She’s a Holmes.” 

John laughs. Yeah. That probably says enough. “Well, nature versus nurture and all that.” 

“Indeed.” Mycroft sounds serious.

There’s a silence while they both look at Violet play. A couple of minutes in, she’s literally run over by another kid. They’re both ready to get her in case she starts crying, but she simply blinks and pushes herself up again. And then screeches with laughter when the same kid tries to push her down again. 

Standing there, with other parents all around, John wonders again about what they’re trying to do here. Have another baby, of the two of them. 

He’s been afraid to ask, since Mycroft doesn’t seem to want them to talk about it. But John does now, not looking at him, instead following Violet across the small square. “So, how are you doing…?” 

Mycroft doesn’t reply. John glances at him and sees his closed-off expression. “If there is any change, I will inform you both.” 

“Well, just know that we’re here, right?” John almost says, ‘if you want to talk’, but then realises who he’s saying that to. 

Mycroft nods. 

After they’ve picked Violet up out of a puddle - she tends to need a bath or at the very least a quick wash after going to the park, John forgot to tell Mycroft that - they walk on. 

It’s harder for Mycroft to lean down and take her grubby hand, so John does. “It’s fine, the benefit of being short, yeah?” John smiles. 

They sit down on a bench for a while, and Violet stays fairly close, trying (and failing abysmally) to catch birds. They’re mainly sitting there in silence, but it never feels like it, with Mycroft. They’re just used to each other, John thinks. When he looks at him, Mycroft sees, and gives him a small, easy smile. 

It feels nice. 

When they say goodbye - John ready to walk back to Baker Street, Mycroft back to where his car is - Mycroft says, “Thank you, John.” 

John’s surprised. “For what?” It’s not like he did anything. 

But Mycroft eyes him warmly. “I have not been accompanied to the park in many years.” 

And John can feel that hit him, because he knows it’s true. The man doesn’t have anyone, does he? “Well, I’d be happy to do it again some time.” John means it, too. 

John lifts Violet and gives her a kiss and a tickle. As always, it makes her squeal. She has streaks of dirt on her face, her cheeks are bright red and her nose is running. She looks like she had a blast. John hands her to Mycroft and waves at her. “Bye bye!”

“B-by, John! B-by!” 

Mycroft nods at him, and John smiles. “See you tomorrow.” 

 

-

 

When John comes home, Sherlock is obviously asleep. There’s nothing mind palace about it - not when he’s breathing that evenly. Feeling daring, John gets close, leans over Sherlock, and kisses him full on the lips. 

Sherlock twitches awake and blinks at him owlishly. 

John grins. “That’s what worked for Sleeping Beauty, too, isn’t it?” 

Sherlock stretches. Then says, lazily, “Sleeping Beauty?” 

“Oh, you’re still going to have to brush up on your princess stories by the time Violet’s into those.”

“Hmm.” 

John orders takeaway, and they eat it on the sofa, Sherlock telling him about the case. Sherlock’s toes twitch while he explains the details of a brutal murder. He sounds excited. John leans his arm against him, and Sherlock doesn’t move away. 

Before John leaves, Sherlock gives him a shy kiss on the cheek. John can feel himself grinning the whole way to Mara’s. 

Later, as he’s lying next to her on her bed, sated, all John can think about is Sherlock’s lips parting in surprise when he kissed him awake. 

And then Mycroft, too. How very lonely he always seems. John wants to invite him more often, he thinks. To stay for dinner some time, maybe, Sherlock would like that, too. There’s really no reason why Mycroft has to do all of this alone, is there? 

They’re family. 

Or something like it, anyway.

 

 

 

 

 


	50. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock is counting the days - how many since Mycroft’s last failed implantation, how many since John got a girlfriend. He’s always conscious of both. They are a clock in the back of his mind. 

Sherlock expects John to announce that he’s going to be with _her_ constantly, and every evening he doesn’t is a bit of a victory. Sherlock even asks Lestrade about old cases, hoping that one of them will be interesting enough to keep John with him for a week or so, but he can’t find anything good enough. 

Bonding with John was… 

Sherlock can still feel that moment reverberate in his chest. Pressing his nose and lips to John’s neck. Smelling him. Sherlock gets a bright shot of pleasure every time he thinks of it. 

John, too, seemed to love it. 

So that is good. They’re bonded now. Sherlock is aware that it wasn’t real to John, but it has changed something in his mind. It proves something, however small. 

But then John leaves again and comes back smelling of someone else. 

Sherlock does not want to love John this much, sometimes. He’s already too aware of the pain he’ll feel when John will move away. He’s bracing for it. 

 

-

 

When a case does come around, it’s not an old case at all, but a new one John spotted in the newspaper. Family dogs are getting kidnapped in one of the fancier parts of London. Sherlock would have taken the case anyway, but it helps that John’s already smiling just telling him about it. That John asks, “All right, I know it’s not murder or anything, but we could, yeah? I’ve got some leave saved up.”

Sherlock is only too happy to do it. 

It’s great fun, especially when they do find all the dogs alive. They’re all kept in a large hangar outside of Heathrow airport and appear to be unharmed. All of them are well-loved family pets, they’re jumping around them excitedly, relatively well taken care of. John laughs when one tries to lick his hand. 

They return them all. It was a group of teen omega girls trying to make extra cash, all of them babysitters that had been at the houses at one time or another and knew about the dogs. 

They get off fairly lightly, Sherlock thinks. 

John asks, on the way home, “You ever want to get one? A dog?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock has thought about this extensively. “When Violet is older, so she’ll grow up with it.” He eyes John and hopes for a positive reaction. _Will you still be here?_

John smiles distantly. “Yeah, that’d be nice.” He adds, wistfully. “I’ve never had one.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but later that evening he googles dog breeds and thinks about which one would work best. They probably should wait until the next baby is around two or three, though. 

If there ever is another baby. 

 

-

 

On John’s next day off, they take Violet swimming again. 

Sherlock had intended to do it more often, but it’s a hassle to gather all their things and go there, there’s rarely time, and he had neglected it. But now, when John suggests it, Sherlock is quick to agree. It means a whole afternoon with John. Probably more, because John will be hungry after. Tired. Perhaps he’ll stay home tonight and sleep next to Sherlock smelling of chlorine and himself. 

They share a changing cubicle between them. 

Sherlock changes Violet into a swim nappy and a bright red swimsuit while John is undressing. Sherlock takes his own jacket off, then waits for John, and hands Violet over to him before undressing himself.

John’s eyes trail over his body. Sherlock can feel them even without looking. Especially on his penis, when it swings free. 

When he does look up, John quickly looks away. Then says, “Um. Sorry.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. It’s fine. He doesn’t mind. 

Sometimes he really would like to be inside John’s brain. To know what it feels like, to him. This. Them. Is it all merely impulses, to John? Pure biology? Does John really think of nothing but how he wants to have him in bed, ever? Is it all some heat between his legs, clouding his mind? Sherlock warily assumes that to be true. 

Whatever higher purposes, whatever romantic ideals John might have, it always comes down to the one thing for him. _Sex._ That and entertainment. To be allowed to work out his impulses - action, danger, adventure. 

It feels so very tiring to Sherlock sometimes. 

Once they’re in the water and Violet splashes them both, they share a look of joy, and the moment of frustration is forgotten. John loves Violet. John is here because he wants to be. And that’s all that matters. 

Sherlock holds Violet on his arm, and they let her ‘swim’ from one of them to the other. When she gets tired of that, they go to the shallow pool and sit on the side, watching her as she plays. 

Sherlock can see John’s body like this very clearly. John’s skin gets goose bumps from sitting still. There are blonde hairs on his arms and legs, still catching drops of water, now. The small pebbles of his nipples. The slight roundness of his stomach. John is wearing swimming trunks, but Sherlock can imagine the rest with perfect clarity. John’s penis. Soft now, close to his body. 

Sherlock looks up and realises that John is looking at him, too. Studying him. 

John smiles apologetically. 

“It’s okay,” Sherlock says. “You can look.” 

“I don’t want to…” John laughs self-consciously. “I can’t look at you and not... I try, but…” John looks at him with bright, beautiful eyes. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?” 

Sherlock looks away. John thinks he is being charming. It’s mildly annoying, actually. 

John says, “I’m never going to be able to look at you and not want you.” It sounds like a confession. 

_Never._ “Why?” 

John looks him over and grins. “Well… who could resist?”

Sherlock hates that answer. What does his body matter? Why does it even factor into this, for John? “I’m going to get older.” Soon, he will be forty. “I will become less attractive.” 

John shakes his head. “Not to me.” 

Sherlock frowns. Of course he will. “Subjectively?” 

“Well, yeah, I’m hardly going to be objective, am I? I love you.” 

John smiles as if he hasn’t just said that, as if it’s completely normal. 

Sherlock swallows. He is sitting on the edge of the shallow pool, the hard lines of the filter underneath his swim shorts. The shrill echoes of playing children all around them. Water lapping haphazardly over his feet. 

He looks over at Violet, who is clumsily trying to fill a small bucket, and repeats John’s words, dully, “You love me?” 

John means that he loves his body. The promise of sex. John loves what Sherlock gives him. The _idea_ of Sherlock Holmes, which he has always tried so very hard to hold onto. The cases. Adventure and adrenalin. While real life is so different. Boring, endless afternoons. Cold feet in bed. Shopping and cooking and cleaning, changing nappies and walks in the park. 

But John is an idealist. He loves the thought of this, _them_ , more than the reality. He probably always will. John will think back on their years together with a grin. Of their wild adventures, of their potential, the electricity flowing between them when they’re on a case, when it all clicks and feels perfect. And John will assume that to have been love. While in reality, it was never enough. 

John’s cool, slightly pruny fingers tangle with his. John’s voice is hoarse, _concerned_. “Hey - you know I do.”

“Even if we don’t have sex.” Sherlock already knows the answer to this. John tries, but it is always going to mean more to him. John is always going to care more for it then he does for him. 

“Yes.” John’s voice changes to frustration. “You know that by now, don’t you?” 

Sherlock looks back at him and forces a smile. “Of course.” 

John’s eyes flicker over him, but then go back to Violet. She’s banging the bucket on the water now, splashing the other kids. John’s hand lets go. 

That evening, John does leave. Sherlock had assumed he would, after that. 

Sherlock waits for John to come home for most of the night. 

Sherlock loves John, too. But there’s just no way to fix some things. Maybe that’s what love really is. To be splayed open, raw and painful, and never be closed again. To always be this vulnerable to another.

 

-

 

Mycroft hasn’t said a word about starting the hormone treatment again, but Sherlock can tell when he does. He can smell it. 

And when Mycroft comes by one morning after John has left for work and says, a faint air of shame around him, “Sherlock, I don’t want to discuss this any further, but if you would be so kind…” Sherlock tries to do it as well as he can. 

Sherlock lingers over Mycroft’s neck and allows the bonding to have an impact on him as well. He doesn’t care how uncomfortable it’ll be later. Sherlock groans when he bites, and he can feel Mycroft’s shudder under him. He can hear Mycroft’s shallow breaths and smell the desire. 

When they break apart, they don’t look at each other. Sherlock feels a haze of lust. The harder he pushes into this, the harder his body responds. His heart is thudding. 

Sherlock spends some hours in his mind palace until his body has calmed down and the wild thrumming has evened out. He curls up around John in bed that night and presses his nose to John’s neck. 

John laughs. Then takes Sherlock’s arm, pulls it around him, and says, “What did I do to deserve this, then? A cuddle?” 

Sherlock doesn’t tell him. He just holds on harder and feels the rumble of John’s voice under his body. Smells him. And tries not to feel too hopeful. 

For anything.

 

 

 

 

 


	51. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft takes the prescribed month off and then starts the injections again. 

As before, he is fastidious about checking his temperature. He takes the vitamins - a barrage of multi-coloured, dry pills. He eats the tasteless vegetables and the endless fruit. But it has a mechanical quality, now. He does it because he knows it to be beneficial for his body, to support it to deal with this treatment, this intrusion. But… 

Mycroft has always, above all, been realistic. 

He knows that with every try, every month he gets older, there is less chance of this succeeding. He cannot help but be aware of the increasing sense that he is trying for the impossible. That he is putting this strain on his body for no advisable, or even sane, reason.

The doctor suggests, “Maybe decide how many rounds you want to try? I find it helps to have a definite number in mind, and if it does not work, you know that you tried as much as possible.” 

Mycroft does. He sits down and considers how much longer he can do this. This will be his fourth round of hormones. The chances of a successful pregnancy are lower and lower on every consecutive try. He regrets now that he did not have a double implantation every time, it would have changed the odds slightly. Not enough, perhaps. 

He does not know what would have been enough. 

Should he have started this sooner? Did he take too long considering it? It is May, now. Sherlock first suggested having a second child after Violet’s first birthday last August. If only he would have tried right then. If only he did not have the incessant tendency to over-think. For constant worry. 

As much as Mycroft would like to believe that his mind has nothing to do with this physical process, he cannot help but think it. He is stressed, constantly carrying the weight of more than most could even grasp. Perhaps it is too much. Perhaps he is being forced to admit that he cannot provide this dream. 

But then Mycroft knows that he can manage this better than anyone else. He is extremely organised, in control, always prepared. He is doing this _perfectly_. 

And so many omegas only have to go in heat and they’re pregnant. So many children are born as the result of a wild coupling, simply a biological imperative realised, as easy as people breathe or defecate. 

And yet this, a child who is so very carefully prepared for, meticulously desired, does not come to pass? It makes him seethe with anger. To see these people, the _masses_ , with their children as an afterthought, as a thing that just happened to them. Why do they deserve it more? 

And why does everything always need to be so difficult! For once, Mycroft would like this to simply happen, as it seems to do to all those others. All those dull, ordinary people, who eat and have sex and fall in love. Who have families of rosy-cheeked children. Who laugh deep belly laughs and drink pints in pubs. These bizarre, ordinary creatures that Mycroft has never envied and never empathised with. Whom he finds distasteful. Horrid. Why is it that they can have this, and he cannot? 

Why?

 

-

 

John and Sherlock see something of his foul mood - Mycroft has been managing to keep himself occupied with work enough, but he is not used to fully hiding his thoughts around them anymore and, unavoidably, some of it surfaces. 

He snaps at John when he does not know where Violet’s favourite book is. Mycroft apologises, but not without seeing John’s briefly annoyed expression. 

When Sherlock bonds with him and throws Mycroft a knowing, happy look - he _knows_ that he is back on the hormones, he can smell or taste or feel it - Mycroft has to hold back not to shout at him to not even say it. 

When John looks at him and tilts his head, an unconscious question as to why he hasn’t succeeded yet, why there is no baby, Mycroft says sharply, “We still have Violet.” 

John is quick to agree and reassure him, but it does not matter. 

Mycroft thinks then that it might be better for Violet, if he fails at this. Only children tend to be more intelligent. And there is a limit on his time, perhaps it will be better spent if all of his energy can go to only one child. 

But Mycroft has never let thoughts comfort him unless they are absolutely correct, and he does not believe that himself. Not anymore. He has enough resources for two children. With Sherlock, John, the nanny, Mrs. Hudson - there is a whole group of people there willing to care for them. 

So it is with some trepidation that he goes through it all over again. 

The injections have certainly lost their appeal. So has the increased pressure he feels when he gets closer to implantation. The wetness between his legs, the desire for a mate, to be coupled, _taken_. It is all a needy parody of something real, and Mycroft has little patience for it. 

He mostly ignores it. 

He does not tenderly place his hand on his stomach. In fact, he does not look at himself at all. He does not touch himself there, or masturbate. If he does not feel it, then he will not feel the disappointment when he is told again that it did not work. The failing emptiness, deep inside of himself. Mycroft only has to remember it to feel an unconscious cramp around his navel. 

So no, it makes perfect sense to take a step back from the emotion in this. To simply see it as a process that will work, or will not, with no involvement from himself other than providing the necessary hormones. 

Mycroft tells the doctor at the next appointment, “I have decided that six attempts will be the maximum.” 

“Six?” She seems a little startled. Then says, delicately, “Avoiding the question on whether your body can sustain that level of hormones for the next few months, are you sure you can do this mentally?” She eyes him. “It’s incredibly difficult to go through this. Especially if you’re alone, the ups and down of the hormones alone would give anyone…”

“Six.” Mycroft says again. It is the maximum recommended amount. Few doctors will go beyond, so he will not either, but he knows that he will never forgive himself if he does not try every single time he is capable of trying.

She nods. “All right. We’ll see how your blood work looks after this, you might have to take some time off again.” 

“I am aware.” 

“We’re on day seventeen now, of the fourth cycle?” 

“Yes.” Mycroft never needs the reminder, he knows it by heart. 

“Implantation in three days, the blood draw, and then I’ll see you again on…” She checks her calendar. “The twenty-first, to discuss the results of the pregnancy test and your liver enzymes.”

“Yes.” 

She smiles. “You never know, this might be the one.”

Mycroft nods, but it feels as if he is humouring her instead of truly agreeing. As if he is merely playing along in this little charade, pretending that it might work. It feels like a polite lie, at this point. A shared illusion, about to shatter. 

 

-

 

Mycroft does visit Sherlock on the morning of the fourth implantation. 

He asks for a bonding cautiously. But he should not have doubted it, since Sherlock is obviously eager to help. Sherlock bites hard, and the rush of it is enough to make Mycroft respond. To make him fall sharply into his own body and feel the wet, shuddering desire between his legs. The heat building between the two of them. The deep _want_ that lives inside of him. For a child or an alpha, there is little difference at the moment. Just a need to be filled. 

Sherlock groans by his ear, and Mycroft feels his knees tremble. His whole self agrees that yes, _yes_ , this is it what he wants. Muscles in his lower back held stiff and upright for what feels like weeks suddenly relax. His chest expands. A weight falls off him. It feels near-orgasmic. 

Afterwards, Sherlock does not meet his eye. For rather obvious reasons, Mycroft can smell Sherlock’s arousal even more so than his own, but he does not blame him for a second. And he truly hopes that Sherlock does not blame him for it, either. 

Mycroft asks him not to tell John. 

He is not certain that he can take that again. 

 

-

 

The implantation is no different from the others. 

Mycroft lies there and does not look at the by-now familiar instruments. The screens. The window, with the always grey view of the side of the hospital building and commuters hurrying over the street. It’s been a cloudy and rainy May so far. There’s drizzle hitting the window, and the paper crinkles underneath his bare arse. 

Mycroft takes his phone, but he does not work straight away. Instead he re-reads some texts, idly. 

Most on his phone are from John, actually. The occasional short one from Sherlock, but John’s tend to be both longer and friendlier. At times flattering. Funny. Mycroft allows himself the thought of John and briefly finds a distraction in it. 

Then he focuses on work, and exactly at the thirty minute mark he gets up and gets dressed. 

The rest of the week is no different. 

His temperature lowers, but that does not mean anything. He does not need to be taking it anymore, but Mycroft continues to do so at the same time every morning, and the number brushes his mind during the day. During a meeting. In the car, when being driven to an interrogation. Thirty-seven point one. The next day, thirty-six point nine. It does not mean much, but it is the only tangible thing he has. 

He could take a pregnancy test at home. 

He has one, in fact. Still in the packaging, ready in his bathroom. Part of him knows that it would be better to face the unavoidable disappointment now. But every morning he looks at it and then does not touch it. Some mornings because Violet is awake and demanding his attention. Others simply because he does not wish to. 

When Mycroft goes by the hospital to have his blood drawn, the nurse recognises him from the last three times but does not wish him luck. Mycroft is grateful for it. 

When he goes to pick Violet up, Sherlock’s eyes travel over him with the question there, already. Mycroft says, “I do not know yet, Sherlock.” But he is aware that he is going to have to tell him. _Again._

 

-

 

The next night, Mycroft is woken by his phone at four twenty in the morning. 

He grabs it, immediately awake and focussed, and listens to Anthea’s voice with a growing sense of dread. There is a crisis with the Iranian contacts. 

And evidence of an atomic bomb. 

Mycroft gives Anthea instructions over the phone from his bedroom and then gets dressed, quickly - a car will be at his door soon. 

He takes Violet out of bed. She is a warm shape in his arms, loose and heavy in sleep. She complains, but does not fully wake as he dresses her in her coat and takes her to the car. 

He tells the driver, “Baker Street first, please.” 

Mycroft is already planning - people to influence, leaders who need to swallow their egos - as well as making a dozen of short phone calls, switching between Anthea and others. 

When they arrive, Mycroft takes Violet out of her car seat and goes up. 

The living room is fully dark. By the bedroom door, Mycroft hesitates. He really is not in the habit of walking into his brother’s bedroom unannounced at five in the morning. He is quite certain that he will not disturb anything, but still he knocks, and then opens the door quietly. There are two shapes in bed, but little movement. 

Mycroft steps to the one closest, leans down with Violet in his arms, and lightly shakes Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock goes entirely still, and then turns over wildly enough to make Mycroft take a step back. Sherlock’s sudden movement wakes John as well, who sits up and says, “ _What?_ ” and then, “Mycroft?” 

“I apologise for the early hour and waking you both, but can I leave Violet here?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock reaches out and takes her. 

“Sure, yeah.” John pulls back the covers, and Sherlock lays her between them, coat and all. 

John squints at him. “Hey, it’s not, like, World War Three, is it?” 

Mycroft thinks privately that it is a possibility, in fact. “Nothing to worry about, I believe.” 

Sherlock makes a disbelieving sound. 

“I have to leave. I don’t know how long I might be.” 

Violet moves and cries weakly. “Faaaah?” 

Sherlock stills her, and John says, “Yeah, go save the world!” 

Mycroft walks out, for a moment not thinking of the crisis at hand, but surprised at how very certain he was that he can walk in here unannounced in the middle of the night. It makes Mycroft briefly feel comforted, to think of Violet between them. John’s ‘go save the world’. 

And then Mycroft gets back into the car, takes his phone, sees the three missed calls in the time he was gone, and gets to work. Somewhere between the flurry of the diplomatic nightmare as well as the general threat level, everyone is deeply on edge. There are American fighter planes ready to bomb the facility.

It’s a long day, with many smaller problems taking up his attention along with the immediate threat. How did they not know? Also, which of their agents were compromised, and which need to be taken out? Mycroft does not think of Violet - other than the always-present sense of whether she is well, naturally - until John sends a text message saying, “She slept on a bit, now down for an afternoon nap. England hasn’t fallen yet as far as I know, so keep on doing what you’re doing! JW” 

Mycroft writes back, “I am very thankful to you both for doing this, John. MH” 

It‘s two hours later when Mycroft can look at his phone again. Underground facilities have terrible reception, and Anthea has been arranging the ground movements of their agents. 

Later in the evening, Mycroft is at the control centre. It is around midnight when John sends, “The world isn’t really ending, is it? JW” 

Mycroft sends back, “I would like to think that it takes more than this. But then humanity as a species is as deeply flawed as it is idiotic. MH” 

It’s only later that he realises that he might have sounded rather more frustrated than he usually allows himself to be. John sends, “Violet gave you a goodnight kiss. She’s down again, no tears. Keep it up, we’re all rooting for mankind over here! No matter how stupid, some of us are worth it, right? JW” 

Mycroft looks at the message for a long moment. He replies, feeling the exhaustion of the day press on him, “Indeed they are. Good night, John. MH” 

John replies, “You need to work all night? Sleep some if you can. JW” 

Mycroft does not send anything back, more because he does not know what to reply than that he does not want to. He does sleep for a couple of hours in one of the rooms that are equipped with a bed at MI6. In the morning, he freshens up and goes straight back to coordinating. 

The deal is finished around noon. The bomb is neutralised as well, and the danger level lowers considerably. But the key players need to be either killed or arrested, which is another diplomatic nightmare. It is the evening of the second day by the time Mycroft takes a deep breath and tells Anthea, “I believe it is time we both go home.” 

She looks as exhausted as Mycroft feels. “No, I’ll stay until after the casualty reports come in.” 

Mycroft knows that it would be useless to ask her to do otherwise. “Let me know.” 

She nods. 

Mycroft will have his phone close all night. 

And then, as he walks out, Anthea says, “Oh, the courier brought this over for you.” She holds out a brown envelope. Mycroft takes it and walks off. 

He sits down heavily in the car and says, “Baker Street.” 

He glances at his phone as it goes again and then decidedly ignores the call. The Foreign Secretary can wait. 

Mycroft opens the letter while mentally still running through contingency plans and possible further complications. 

He is briefly surprised when he sees the header. 

Mycroft feels a stab of irritation - why would they risk this information being opened by anyone but himself! But then he did allow them to send John’s results over, as well. He pulls the piece of paper out and looks at the results of his blood work. His liver enzymes are high again. Too high for another course of hormones straight away, as he had feared. 

He scans the page and then sees, bolded, his hCG levels. **Positive.**

Mycroft blinks. 

The scenery of London streets and traffic is changing next to him, but he does not see it. 

He quickly reads the lines handwritten by the doctor below, _“Call the office for an appointment. Congratulations! Dr. Bharat Mehta“_

He is pregnant.

 

 

 

 

 


	52. (John)

 

 

They’re waiting for Mycroft to come back and get Violet. John does get that it was an emergency, but god - did they ever underestimate how hard it is to have her in Baker Street for several days on end. He and Sherlock are both exhausted. John expects that as soon as she’s gone, they’re just going to watch some TV and go straight to bed. 

Strange, how a two-day case has nothing on _a toddler_. 

And that’s with the nanny, who took Violet to playgroup both mornings. With Mrs. Hudson, who took Violet for an hour just so John could clean up the absolute mess she made when she got into one of Sherlock’s experiments - nothing too bad, luckily, but a glass test tube shattered and it got everywhere. 

John yelled a bit at her for that. Later, Sherlock wisely took her out to the park on his own so that he at least could breathe. John’s respect for full-time parents has grown quite a bit. He always thinks that they know Violet well and that they’re used to taking care of her. But when it comes down to it, they only have her over for four or five hours a day, and after that they’re free to do whatever. This is different. 

But still, John doesn’t feel nearly as bad as Mycroft looks when he walks in. 

Violet’s concentrating on building a tower with building blocks, and Sherlock is sitting on the floor next to her and trying to keep the thing from falling over. Violet on her own is too uncoordinated not to make it fall, but she gets angry every time it does. 

John is on the sofa, when Mycroft opens the door. He looks pale. Worn. John smiles at him. “You made it.” 

Mycroft nods. “Yes, good evening.” 

He walks on to Violet, who reaches out her arms to him to be picked up, but strangely, Mycroft hesitates for a brief moment. And then lifts her. “Hello, my darling. I’m sorry that it has been such a long time.” 

Violet wiggles to be let go again, not particularly impressed by Mycroft’s long absence. Mycroft lets her. He asks Sherlock, “Has she been all right?” 

Sherlock says, “Yes,” and then rattles off what she did and when. 

Mycroft doesn’t look as if he’s fully listening. John doesn’t doubt that he does hear it, but Mycroft’s eyes follow Violet. He seems to want to take her in. He must have missed her. When Sherlock’s done, John asks, “Are you okay?” 

Mycroft turns towards him. “Yes, simply tired. It has been a difficult two days.”

Sherlock frowns at that, and John shares a look with him. Mycroft hardly ever admits that he’s tired. Never mind that something was _difficult_. 

Sherlock hesitantly takes a step towards Mycroft, offering to bond. 

Mycroft allows it. 

Sherlock only brushes his lips over Mycroft’s neck briefly, then hesitates. Mycroft stands in the middle of the living room, his head held low. Violet pushes her tower of blocks over with a rumble, but it doesn’t startle either of them. Sherlock breathes Mycroft in, and then looks up at John with a strange light in his eyes. 

John raises his eyebrows at him, _what?_

Sherlock says, his voice low, but with a barely contained _something_ behind it, “It worked, didn’t it?” 

John sits upright. What? He looks between them. _Really?_

Mycroft eyes Sherlock. He takes a breath and then says, “Apparently, although I’m surprised that you can tell this early.” 

John stands up. Oh god. “You’re sure? You’re... pregnant?”

“Only a positive blood test, nothing more.” Mycroft seems to want to temper him. Everything about him seems to say it, from his downturned shoulders, to the bags under his eyes. “I did not mean to tell either of you tonight. Please, understand that the odds are slim...” 

“But it _worked_.” Sherlock has a growing note of joy in his voice. “It’s been two weeks.” 

“You’re two weeks along?” John walks closer, unable to keep the smile of his face. Yes, he knows the odds, he does, but this is further than they’ve ever gotten. 

“Fifteen days since implantation.” 

Mycroft seems to be downplaying it more than anything, and John gets that, he really does. It’s hard to try and celebrate something like this when there’s so much that can go wrong, but still! John shares a look with Sherlock, who seems to be brimming with happiness. John knows that he didn’t think it would work at all for a while there. John had been thinking that, too. But this! 

John for once doesn’t care about the Holmes code on physical contact and keeping emotions to a minimum. He steadily walks up to Mycroft, puts his arms around him, and hugs him. Mycroft’s not too responsive, but John doesn’t care - he holds on for a long moment, squeezes in happiness, and then lets go and grins at him. 

Mycroft’s eyes do seem briefly happy. Then he says again, “Please do not expect too much yet.” He looks at Violet. “If you don’t mind, I am really quite tired…”

He is, John can tell. John’s about to suggest that Mycroft sleeps here again, when Sherlock says it, “Sleep in John’s bed.” 

Mycroft tilts his head. “Thank you, but I am looking forward to being at home.” 

“You want Violet to stay here?” John’s not particularly in the mood for another night of crying, but Mycroft’s pregnant and exhausted, if there ever was a time where they need to be helping him then this is it, isn’t it? 

“No, thank you. I have not seen her in two days, I believe it is time for her to come home.” 

John can’t argue with that. He watches Mycroft pick her up. Sherlock gives him the bag that the nanny brought over for them, John gets her coat, and with a last “Bye bye!” from Violet they’re gone. 

John falls back onto the sofa. Sherlock sits next to him. 

John can feel the idea hit him square in the chest. He can barely think it, let alone say it. 

He’s going to be a father. 

He has dealt with this news once already, completely out of the blue that time, so he should know what it feels like. But it’s not even remotely the same. He’s scared as fuck, yeah, but also much more prepared. And _glad_ , so glad. John can feel it burst through, and he looks at Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s smile grows until it’s wide and perfect. “It worked!” 

John reaches out and hugs him, fast. Sherlock’s about as responsive as Mycroft was, but John makes it quick, and as he pulls back Sherlock’s still smiling. 

John takes his hand and tangles their fingers. 

Wow. 

 

-

 

John was feeling exhausted before, but when they go to bed, he lies there staring at the ceiling for a small eternity. Thinking about it. Mycroft’s right - it’s too early to be ecstatic about this, they need to be realistic. But John can’t help it. 

It feels immense. 

Despite thinking about it for all these months, John hadn’t been completely prepared to hear it. To know that it actually happened. 

He thought he was ready for it, but he had no idea what this would feel like. When it’s with someone he trusts. John, even back at his wedding, didn’t trust Mary completely. He thought he did, or that he _should_ , mainly. But even then, there had been a flash of ‘how on earth is she pregnant, this doesn’t make sense!’ It had been overshadowed by Sherlock’s obvious pain. By the sense that John needed to pretend, as well - to keep it up, to keep on going. Or at least try, for Mary. Try to be normal. 

John can’t even imagine living like that anymore now. And as weird as the thought of having a kid with Mycroft is - and yes, it absolutely _is_ \- John trusts him. He trusts Mycroft. John saw Mycroft’s face when he told them he wasn’t pregnant, and now as well - too scared of everything that might go wrong to be happy yet. Mycroft wants this. They all do. 

And Sherlock’s reaction, well. Actually, John’s sure Sherlock’s awake still, too. John reaches out a tentative hand and admits, “Can’t sleep.” 

Sherlock shifts on the bed to look at him and says, “The rate of first trimester miscarriage after fertility treatments at his age is sixty-two percent.” 

“I know.” John says. Sherlock takes his hand. “I know, we’ll just have to hope for the best, yeah?” 

Sherlock frowns - John can’t see it but he can tell by the way he moves. “Why? It’s stupid to think like that. Hoping won’t help.” 

“No.” No, John’s seen enough shit in his life not to believe in the power of positive thinking. Actually, John had thought it would be Sherlock who’d hope against reason. But then Sherlock has read up on it, too. He knows. 

“You’re worried?” John prompts. 

Sherlock turns. He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. 

“Bond with him often, keep the hormone levels up.” Sherlock was going to do that anyway, John is sure. But at least it’s something he can do. 

John can’t do a thing. 

 

-

 

John has the weekend shift, so he doesn’t see Mycroft for a couple of days. Sherlock tells him every day how he seemed, which essentially is, ‘perfectly normal and unwilling to talk about it.’ 

John thinks about when he found out that Mycroft was pregnant last time. He’d been so surprised to hear it then. It came out of absolutely nowhere, it seemed utterly impossible that someone like _Mycroft_ would even want a kid. Let alone deign to carry one himself. 

John remembers Mycroft saying, “You do not know me well, John.” He’d been right, of course. 

John can’t imagine life without Violet, now. 

Mycroft is a great father. He is hardly the most affectionate of parents, nor does he play with her much, but he always pays complete attention to her. He’s always ready to put her needs over his own, he doesn’t even question it. And now it’ll be _their_ kid. John thinks he should do something, or at least say something, but then Mycroft doesn’t want to celebrate yet. 

John’s at work when he suddenly gets the idea. He grins. Then looks through his phone for Anthea’s number and calls it. 

She answers on the first ring. “Yes?” She sounds harried.

“Hi, Anthea. It’s John?” John waits a moment for her to recognise his name. She does know who he is. “John Watson?” There’s only silence. 

Fine. John goes on, “Could you tell me when Mycroft is in his Diogenes Club office? And, um, not tell him that I called?” John thinks about what he’s asking, really. She probably can’t give out that information at all. “I’m not going to… I don’t know, _assassinate_ him. I just want to come by, that’s all. Surprise him, I guess.” If there’s such a thing. 

Still no reply.

John sighs. Never mind. “Look, if you can’t tell me, then can you at least not tell him that I asked?” 

And then she finally speaks, sounding bored, “Today between 4 and 7PM.” 

“Okay, that’s…”

The line is dead. She’s hung up. Great. 

That’s one deeply frightening woman. And yes, John still finds her attractive. It suddenly reminds him of Mara, actually - he hasn’t seen her in days. First with having Violet over, and then with catching up on work, and Mycroft being pregnant, he’d just sort of forgotten about her. He probably should go see her tonight. John doesn’t send her anything, he can deal with that later. 

He works. Fever in an infant, a two month old alpha boy. John handles him with a smile, already not used anymore to how small they really are. The baby’s arms are tiny, his thin legs wheel in the air. The boy has good muscle control, but John takes some blood anyway, just to be safe. 

Then heart problems in a middle-aged woman. Prescribing antibiotics for a bladder infection. The afternoon patients all blend together until John clocks out at exactly six. 

He takes the tube to Westminster. As he walks out, it starts to rain. It figures - just the way he remembers. 

It’s just a quick spring shower that clears up by the time John’s walking past the Diogenes Club, and then to the Tesco further down the street. He wasn’t sure it would still be there, but it is, in all its flashy glory. 

John wonders about what he’s doing. There’s no reason why Mycroft is going to think that this is particularly funny, or cute. Still, John looks for the digestives. Blue wrapper. And yes, he’s in luck there, too. He buys a packet. 

He asks for a carrier bag, and walks back to the club. 

John rings the doorbell. Today’s attendant looks at him warily, but John says, “Mycroft Holmes,” and walks straight in. 

The man quickly follows him in, moving as quietly as possible on his covered shoes. John walks past the usual suspects sitting in armchairs, napping, reading, some eyeing him with a frown of suspicion as he walks past. John grins. _Yeah, the pleb’s here, carrying a Tesco bag. Better watch out._

The attendant joins him in the lift. John asks him, “Did you know I was coming?” 

The man blinks, as if surprised to be spoken to, and says, “You are always allowed to enter, Doctor Watson.” 

Hah! So maybe he was right and there really is a picture of him somewhere, saying ‘very important, don’t shoot.’ John likes the idea. 

They walk through the long corridor. John hasn’t been here in forever. He always talks to Mycroft at home now, no reason to see him at the office as well. But he remembers it well enough. There’s something about the creepy atmosphere that does it, he thinks. All old boys’ club mixed with evil lair. 

The attendant knocks, and at Mycroft’s stern “Enter!” he opens the door and ushers John in. Then discretely closes it behind him again. 

“John?” Mycroft seems surprised to see him. “Is everything all right?” 

“Oh, fine.” John walks up to the desk. Mycroft does glance at the bag, but he doesn’t seem to deduce it straight away. For all he knows John spends his days walking around with the shopping. “I just brought something.” John reaches into the bag and takes out the roll of digestives. He puts them on the desk. “Congratulations.” 

Mycroft glances at them. John can feel a smile tug on his lips. “It’s tradition now, yeah?” He grins. “In case you’re going to be fainting all over the place again.” 

Mycroft seems charmed by them, more than John had hoped for. “I do not intend to, but…”

“No guarantees?” John laughs. “It’s fine, I’ll catch you.” 

Mycroft looks at him. “Thank you, John.” 

“Yeah, well…” John swallows back some emotion. It still feels odd to say it. “It’s my kid, too.” 

Mycroft’s eyes are on him, and John can feel a million things. Happiness, so much. But also how strange it is to have this moment between them again. How much has changed in just a couple of years. How much John likes him, really. “So, yeah, thank _you_. For…” 

_Having my kid. Being here. Doing this, it must have been hard and I know it._

Mycroft nods, quickly. And averts his eyes, obviously a bit emotional. 

John looks away. “See you in a bit? If you’re still…” He nods at Mycroft’s desk. “Working?” 

Mycroft looks at the file in front of him. “Actually,” He closes the file and gets up. “I can offer you a ride, if you wish.”

It’s easier than the tube, for sure. “All right.” 

Mycroft gets his coat. Then the digestives as well, and he smiles briefly. “I imagine I should keep these close for when they are needed.” 

John laughs. “Yeah, looking forward to that, are you?”

Mycroft pulls a face, and they’re off, still smiling. 

Going home.

 

 

 

 

 


	53. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock never realised how stressful a process pregnancy truly is. 

It’s hard to imagine how Mycroft, with his constant need to control everything, even dealt with it once. It’s appalling how much of it is up to _chance_. It just is, or it isn’t. Right now it is merely cells - dividing away, influencing Mycroft’s body and hormones - and either it will become a baby, or it won’t. 

There’s very little that can be done about it.

Whenever Mycroft comes by in the next few days, Sherlock eyes him in detail and considers Mycroft’s weight, health, and his general level of fitness. Mycroft catches him at it. “Sherlock, stop it.” 

But Sherlock doesn’t want to. “What supplements are you taking? 400 micrograms of folic acid is recommended daily until the end of the first trimester.” 

Mycroft sighs. 

“I can forward you the article.” 

“There are many guidelines for early pregnancy and I am aware of them all.” He picks Violet up. “I have done this before, after all.” 

Sherlock makes a mental note to focus on anything that came out after Violet’s birth. “The research might have changed.” That’s all he can do, that and bond. 

Mycroft nods. “Fine, send it to me.” And to Violet, “Now where did you go today?” 

“Ducks!” She says. “Big, big bird! Bird eating.” 

“You went to the park again?” Mycroft checks with him. 

“Yes, Regent’s Park, the circle the way she likes, first the ducks, and then the reeds, she picked one and carried it the whole way. We ran into the woman that feeds the herons, Violet’s a bit scared of them up close, but we sat down and watched for around twenty minutes.” Violet had been utterly fascinated. “I’ll take her to the pelicans in St. James’ Park tomorrow if it doesn’t rain.”

She continues to want to see all sorts of animals. Birds in particular. Sherlock has wondered more than once if she’s going to be an ornithologist when she grows up. He eyes Mycroft and, testing the idea, says, “Cambridge has a great natural sciences program.”

Mycroft smiles. “ _Yes,_ perhaps that is getting ahead of ourselves just a tad? At this age, everything is a phase, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock shrugs. He never grew out of his fascination with experiments. Chemistry, in particular.

But Mycroft does look at her consideringly. Sherlock knows he’s right, that he’s already thinking of it, of who she’ll be when she grows up. “...of course, we won’t mind if we have a little biologist on our hands.” 

Sherlock eyes him. Mycroft himself always hated being outside - the only way he’d bear it was with a book and even then only rarely. Sherlock had thought that Mycroft would insist on something more mathematical. Languages, as well. Politics. But he seems perfectly willing to concede that Violet might choose science. 

Good. 

Sherlock glances back at Mycroft and asks quickly, “No nausea yet?” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Sherlock, _please_.” 

“Fine.” Sherlock feels annoyed that he won’t say. It’s important - nausea is a sign of changing hormone levels as the pregnancy progresses. 

So are sore nipples. Sherlock has been watching him carefully for signs of chafing. 

 

-

 

When John comes back from work, he showers and changes, and says, “Sorry, haven’t seen Mara in ages. If I don’t go now, she’s gonna hate me.” 

So Sherlock’s home alone again, sitting in the living room in the gathering dark, when his phone buzzes with a text. Sherlock hopes it’s John for a moment, the way he always does. But it’s something better. _Lestrade._ “Come asap? Murder.” 

Sherlock is half-way to calling John, when he stops and thinks. John is with his girlfriend. He won’t want to be disturbed. 

Sherlock grabs his coat and goes alone. 

The address is an abandoned, boarded-up house. It smells like piss, mould, and neglect. Sherlock hasn’t been here before, but he knows the way these places feel. A drug den. 

Lestrade is upstairs. He looks up when Sherlock comes in. “John’s not with you?” 

Sherlock waves it off and looks at the victim, neatly outlined in yellow tape. An omega girl, young, with the needle still in her vein. She’s on a mattress, covered with stains – urine, faeces, blood. When Sherlock steps closer, a rat skitters away. The girl is thin, but without obvious signs of severe addiction or malnutrition. Expensive, recently-acquired clothes. 

Sherlock looks back at Lestrade. “Not a user?”

“Both the mother and the school say she’s not.” Lestrade grabs his phone. “A week ago, she looked like this.” 

Sherlock scans the portrait. She seems healthy. Some make-up. A bright smile. “Delusional parents only see what they want to see. They ignored the signs.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too, but she had a perfect attendance record at school. Friends, good grades, she does sports…” 

Sherlock takes out his magnifying glass. He collects samples from under her fingernails. Checks her veins, her hair, and her clothing for evidence. And then leaves them to it. 

 

-

 

The lab at Barts is quiet this time of night. 

It feels strange to be back. The smell of disinfectant and bad coffee. The gleaming floors. Sherlock used to come here once a week at least, but it’s been months now. He only comes to work here when the cases truly need it, and when they don’t have Violet. 

Sherlock prepares the slides, and then feels a thrill at the first result. He knew it! No heroin in her blood. She was dead before they injected her. 

This is what he’s good at. What he’s always been good at. 

_This is who he is._

 

-

 

Sherlock goes down to the morgue around 5AM. Molly’s not on yet, but he can’t wait. He steals the file and checks the preliminary findings on the body. Then takes a cab and searches through more drug dens. It’s not particularly hard, but there are many in the area. 

Sherlock is still going around noon. 

He hasn’t eaten, hasn’t had anything to drink, hasn’t stopped. His body feels utterly alive on adrenalin. It’s a familiar haze, and he realises how much he’s missed it. 

Except that when he’s reached his last drug den on the list and forced his way in, he’s not there. The girl’s brother.

Sherlock sits down on the floor and tries to rethink. He missed something – what? He rubs his stinging eyes. He needs to think! 

And that’s when Mycroft walks in. Sherlock knows that careful stride. The tap of an umbrella. The hint of judgement. He looks up. “Oh, don’t start, it’s not that and you know it’s not.” He’s not here because he’s _using again_. 

“I am aware.” Mycroft’s expression softens for a moment. But then the habitual frown reappears. “However, John didn’t know where you were, Inspector Lestrade lost track of you, and neither were confident that you weren’t abducted or otherwise in danger. Hence me having to leave a very productive meeting to scan the city for you.” He sighs. “Really, Sherlock, how about checking your phone?”

Sherlock takes it out of his pocket. The battery died hours ago. “I nearly had him.” 

“Him?”

“Yes, _him_ , the junkie brother.” Sherlock waves it away - it’s logical, the girl wasn’t a user at all, but she did have a half-brother with a history of heroin use. Not mentioned by the parents at all, for some idiotic reason. Sherlock eyes Mycroft and smiles wryly. “It’s always the junkie brother, didn’t you know?” 

Mycroft’s mouth pulls, wanting to chide him, but his eyes betray a brief flicker of amusement. 

Sherlock gets up, stiffly - why do his legs feel so heavy - and they walk out. 

“Do you need me to inform Inspector Lestrade?” 

“No, just drop me off there.” Sherlock dismisses his waiting taxi. He can look through the records again, and Lestrade can locate the brother. 

“I have told John that you are well.” 

“Hm.” Sherlock is still thinking about the murder. Why go through all the trouble to disgrace her that way? He can understand the impulse, but it takes a certain amount of preparation and cruelty that he wouldn’t have expected from the average junkie. 

Mycroft says, as if it is important, “You left without him.” 

An obsessive personality isn’t unusual in an addict, Sherlock considers. Did he have help? 

“And you didn’t call him.” 

The level of attention to detail could suggest a woman. Girlfriend? Friend? 

“Sherlock, he was worried. You can’t do this.” 

Sherlock turns around and snaps at Mycroft, “Can’t I? When he’s off _fucking_ that beta, I can’t solve a case?” 

Mycroft steps back, surprised by the level of his outburst. 

They both get in the car. 

Mycroft is searching for words, Sherlock can tell. Turning them around in his mind, trying to be _calm_ and _comforting_. Sherlock doesn’t need to hear it. Not when he feels the knowledge of John with _her_ crawl under his skin every single day. 

Eventually, Mycroft says, “You need to tell him, Sherlock.” 

That’s the worst thing he could do. 

Sherlock doesn’t answer. 

Mycroft drops him off with a small nod and a sympathetic expression. Sherlock pretends to see neither. 

 

-

 

Sherlock makes Lestrade search the CCTV footage of a dozen cameras, and when they do finally find the brother, he’s dead, too. 

Presented in the same manner. 

Lestrade shakes his head and says, “He overdosed after killing her. Murder-suicide”

But Sherlock grins. “No. _Murder._ ” 

It takes some convincing and another trip to Barts for the evidence, but by evening, they arrest the father. He’d been abusing both for years. Killing the girl was an accident. He set it up and left her there, hoping she’d be forgotten, or at worst that the brother would be blamed. When the brother realised and was about to tell, he did it to him, too. 

Sherlock is buzzing with the thrill of being right. Being _better_ and _smarter_. But Lestrade says, “Go home now, yeah? John will want to see you.” 

Sherlock never charged his phone. 

 

-

 

He comes home near midnight. There is a light still on in the hallway. Mrs. Hudson’s head pokes out and she says, “Oh, you! Talk to us before you leave like that again, Sherlock! Violet’s been asking about you all day.” 

Sherlock nods. He looks at the stairs. And makes it up there slowly. His stomach rumbles - annoyingly. He hasn’t eaten in a day and a half, it shouldn’t be a problem yet.

John is sitting on the sofa. He tilts his head as soon as he walks in. “Well.” 

Sherlock suddenly feels weak. He tries to smile, “Caught the killer, case closed.” 

“I heard, yeah,” John says. “Greg told me. Mycroft did, too.”

“Hm.” Sherlock takes his coat off, and then his shoes, so that he doesn’t have to look at John. Also, he stinks. He really needs a shower. 

“Why?” John sounds calm. Dangerously so. 

Sherlock turns around and eyes him. 

Which was a mistake, because John seems suddenly filled with anger. “Why didn’t you call? Or text? I came home and there was nothing, tried to reach you, nothing! Sherlock, I thought you...” John sucks in a breath. “You can’t do this! You can’t disappear like that.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.” 

He walks to the bathroom. But John isn’t done. John yells after him, “Yes, it does!”

Sherlock strips. He’s unusually tired. His body isn’t used to this anymore, cases that go through the night. Maybe he’s settled too much - having three meals a day and nights with John in his bed. The regular rhythm of everyday existence has made him weak. Maybe it was better when he was like this. When it didn’t matter, none of it. 

Sherlock steps under the spray and watches the water circle the drain. 

Maybe he never was meant to do all of this. It’s an illusion, that John will ever be truly happy here. With him. 

Sherlock hasn’t locked the door, and he regrets that when John knocks and then opens the door. John’s voice, low, “Look, we need to talk about this.” 

Sherlock purposely gets out of the shower. He’s dripping wet, naked, and yes, John’s gaze brushes over him. Even now, John can’t help it. _Wanting him._

Sherlock thinks of it, pushing John to the wall, taking him, claiming him. 

Instead he pushes the door closed, narrowly avoiding crushing John’s fingers. “Oi!”

John doesn’t try to open it again. 

Sherlock dries off. Shaves, too, with strangely numb hands. He’s never dared to be angry with John before. Not like this. He can already feel it fade, retreat - he needs to adjust to keep John, he needs to… 

It wasn’t fun, a case without John. It was intense, Sherlock was jumping from one thread of thought to the next, being brilliant and amazing and on fire. But it didn’t matter. All of his deductions, all of his greatness - without John it barely mattered at all. 

John has become the mirror to which he performs. 

The thing that he needs to look at to know himself. 

Sherlock leaves the bathroom and goes to his room for pyjamas. A dressing gown. Socks and slippers. He tussles his hair. He’s stalling - he didn’t hear the sound of the door slamming shut, but John could have left quietly, too. 

Eventually, Sherlock walks to the kitchen. John is sitting there, cradling a cup of tea. 

Sherlock offers, “It was a good case, Lestrade texted, I left.” Sherlock looks at John and tries to appear like what John wants to see. “You know me, I can never resist a good mystery.” He’s pretty sure he’s smiling. 

But it doesn’t work. John looks at him disbelievingly. “Sherlock, you haven’t taken a case without me since Moriarty.”

“You were _busy_.” Sherlock says it before he’s thought it through. 

“What? Is that it - Mara?” John points at him. “You told me, you told me it was fine! I never would have done it otherwise!” 

Yes, John would have. Or he wouldn’t, and they would have broken up. “It was just a case, John.” Sherlock feels so drained, now. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

John deflates, too. There’s a moment of silence. And then, “Okay, fine.” 

Sherlock goes to bed and then waits, still tense. 

John follows. He gets in the other side and says, hesitantly, “I thought something happened.” 

Sherlock swallows. _Be happy that he cares, at least._ “I know.” 

The dark seems to press on his eyes. 

John huffs a bit of a laugh, as if he’s just thought of something funny. “Hey, our first domestic in a while. Mrs. Hudson will be excited.” 

“She was, I saw her in the hall.” Sherlock says it quickly and then feels a strange smile bubble up, too. He doesn’t know why it’s funny.

John laughs. “Good. Can’t get too boring.”

“Heaven forbid.”

 

 

 

 

 


	54. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft isn’t nauseous yet. Or unusually fatigued.

He doesn’t feel any particular sensation that seems to spell pregnancy. Then again, there is no absence of it, either. It is not as if he feels that he isn’t, there is simply nothing noteworthy. He feels no sense of it, yet. A child.

Or _children,_ there is the possibility that there are two. Mycroft did not tell Sherlock or John that when he was forced to admit to his pregnancy. He did not have time to plan, or to consider. Sherlock sensed it and there it was, they knew within ten minutes of Mycroft himself. Yet another secret of his body revealed, something that is not solely his.

But then he always knew that he would share this. That this child would not be his alone.

Mycroft feels little joy so far. Nor the same terror as he did with Violet, either. It feels distant.

He does make an appointment, where the doctor once again confirms his blood results. Mycroft makes certain not to appear as unaffected as he feels.

Perhaps he cannot let himself be happy, yet.

 

-

 

The Iran crisis has left a lot of waves in its wake, with several key assassinations and arrests. It does not reflect well on quite a few major authorities and the players behind them, so Mycroft spends a lot of time managing expectations and re-directing anger towards those that can be lost.

He comes out of it well himself, of course. Mycroft is always careful about strings that could tie him to something potentially damaging, or could be used against him. Still, work is rather more intense than it has been for a while.

And then Sherlock pulls the stunt of disappearing. It is a regression of sorts, Mycroft assumes, a retreat to old habits, and for the hours that Sherlock is missing, Mycroft is concerned. And yes, a small part of his worry is for this child, too. Without Sherlock…

The day after Sherlock is back, Violet is extra clingy. She does not want to come home straight away and instead insists on staying with Sherlock and John. Sherlock seems slightly unwilling to let her go, as well. Mycroft shakes his head at both of them and agrees to let her stay the night.

John, at least, seems well. The fall-out from that particular incident that Mycroft had feared would happen, does not appear at all.

The days move one by one, and there is no tragedy. No new crisis.

Nothing to keep Mycroft from realising, at times with a bit of a shock, that he is pregnant. Truly - pregnant.

If this pregnancy continues, there will be things to prepare. Material, practical things. To think of a name, medical appointments, of Violet and how he will manage caring for her when sick, or when he is much heavier. The list of details, whenever Mycroft considers it, is both long and intricate, but also well-planned already. This is not nearly as foreign as preparing for Violet’s arrival was. He has done all of it before, and he has a good idea of what will be needed and what will not be.

John asks, three weeks after finding out, “Have you gotten used to the thought yet?”

And Mycroft admits to him, “I do find that at times I am still surprised that it is true.”

Mycroft has seen the blood tests, he knows it is a fact. He thinks that it will sound foolish to John, but John says, “Me, too.” He smiles wryly. “I mean, I’m very – but then sometimes, it’s like it can’t be real.”

Mycroft offers, cautiously, “I imagine that for myself, it will be tangible once I can feel more of a difference.”

John looks him over. “You don’t, yet?”

“No.” Part of Mycroft is relieved at that, because he remembers morning sickness quite vividly. He suffered a lot from it, and he is not exactly looking forward to dealing with it again. Twin pregnancies tend to produce more hormones, so the faster he does become ill, the more chance there is that there are two.

But then not being nauseous at all means that perhaps it is not progressing as planned. There is a large chance that this will end up in a miscarriage, after all.

Mycroft cannot allow himself to linger over the thought, but of course he does. He cannot stop his worry. The sour idea that if that happens, he will never try again, because it will have been enough.

It has already been enough.

 

-

 

There are weeks of no change whatsoever. And then one morning, Mycroft wakes, sits up, and feels a brief wave of nausea.

It stops him in his tracks.

He sits on the edge of the bed and holds on to his bedside table, the palms of his hands clammy. He stands with care. The room spins.

Mycroft hurries to the bathroom, kneels by the toilet, and the first true wave of it makes his whole body roll with the intrusion. He empties his stomach into the toilet and then sits on the bathroom floor, cold sweat pearling on his forehead and sticking his pyjama top to his back.

The moment feels clearer than countless moments before.

Mycroft feels shaken by it. Bowed over by the force of it, but some part of him exhales, too. He is _relieved_.

He is seven-and-a-half weeks along, supposedly.

And in truth, he had been afraid that it would not happen at all.

He had, through all the tries, all the injections, all the appointments, prepared for the idea that he would never carry a child again.

But now… Mycroft sits there and suddenly sees months of this spread in front of him. The dizziness, the cotton wool feeling in his head, the uncertain, shaken existence. He mentally re-schedules meetings, shifts his workload around to make it lighter in the mornings, to rest more. He knows that perhaps he should have done so earlier, but he did not want to presume.

Then Violet cries, and Mycroft drags himself up. He suppresses another wave of nausea and goes to get her out of bed. Because that is what it will be like to have two, he imagines. Both of them tugging at him, wanting opposing things.

He manages to get dressed, but that is all. Violet is still in her pyjamas and unfed when the nanny arrives. She says, “Are you all right, sir?”

Mycroft smiles politely and hopes that she will not guess yet. “I didn’t feel well. I am better now, thank you.”

Sherlock deduces it when he goes to get Violet later that day. It would be hard not to. Mycroft has spent another round on his knees at work, and he has not managed to keep anything down other than, yes, one of John’s digestives. Mycroft would see the irony and smile if he could do that without feeling a pulse of nausea again.

Sherlock looks him over and announces, “Morning sickness!” with a rather overly thrilled smile.

“All day.” Mycroft admits.

John sends an excited message, “I heard - good luck getting used to worshipping at the porcelain altar again. JW”

Mycroft is already lying flat on his bed, as he retired right after putting Violet to bed. He thinks about it, then sends, knowing that John will get a kick out of it, “I believe that this might be the time to use the cliché: ‘I hate you, John, you are never doing this to me again.’ MH”

Mycroft can practically hear John’s laughter at that.

He is right. John replies, “God, I just laughed so hard Sherlock asked what was wrong. I’d say that I had nothing to do with it, but I suppose if you’re accusing someone… JW”

Mycroft is aware that he is being rather ridiculous. But he is lying here, spinning with nausea, and yet he feels somewhat free, too. Happy in his misery. So he doubts only a moment and then sends, “Absence at time of conception does not free you from moral responsibility. At times where I need to mentally blame someone other than myself for this condition, it will be the both of you. MH”

Mycroft meant it to be funny, but then reading it back he wonders if perhaps it was too serious, after all. Too revealing.

John replies, “I’m happy to be blamed. Honoured, really. Feel free to curse me whenever you feel like shit. You can always call me, too. Might be more effective. JW” There’s a smiley face behind it.

Mycroft can read the honesty in there. He says, “Thank you for the offer, John, I will consider it when needed. MH” already knowing that he will never call John to share in his low moments. Those are his own. But he will in his happiness, Mycroft thinks.

He will share that much.

 

-

 

Mycroft has had the appointment in his schedule for weeks, but then when it suddenly is time, he feels a spike of fear.

The first sonogram.

At eight weeks, they will be able to see a lot. A heartbeat, hopefully. One, or two. Whether it appears healthy, or whether his nausea was just residual hormones, whether he already lost the pregnancy. Whether there is nothing to celebrate after all.

Mycroft goes in and lies down on the table.

The cold fluid on his stomach still carries an unpleasant reminder of nearly losing Violet, and he carefully controls his breathing. Dr. Mehta moves the probe around and does not say a word. She simply checks the screen. Mycroft can see it as well as she does - two round shapes. One much smaller than the other.

“One viable embryo there.” She checks with him.

Mycroft nods.

One, then. He feels aware of a small loss. _He lost a child._

The doctor zooms in, and he can see a faint, fluttering contraction. “The heart,” she says.

Mycroft remembers this from Violet. The doctor turns the sound on, and there is the fast rumble, nearly unrecognisable as a human heartbeat.

Mycroft thinks of it all day. The thought - whenever it re-appears, and it does so often - is one that makes him feel an unexpected touch of anxiety. A heartbeat. There is a child there, and it has a beating heart. At this very moment at least, it does.

It seems implausible.

He feels another wave of dizziness and has to spend several minutes practicing very controlled breathing in a meeting in order not to faint. He sips a glass of water, hoping that it is not too obvious that he can hardly see because of the waves of black-and-white spots in front of his eyes. Mycroft still argues his point when called upon. Eloquently, he hopes.

He waits until last to walk out of the meeting room and goes straight to the bathroom.

Anthea notices. She asks him, privately, when they are back in the office, “Everything all right, sir?” There is something expectant in her expression. She thinks she knows.

So Mycroft gives in and says, “I believe I will need to re-schedule some of my morning meetings for the next two months or so.”

She nods, completely professional. And then glances at him and smiles, very briefly, but genuine. “Hoping for one that sleeps through the night this time, sir?”

Mycroft sees it, the small flash of acceptance. He is grateful for it, more than she realises, perhaps. He says, darkly, “One could only be so lucky.”

Anthea laughs, and then immediately goes back to work, but it is not without a friendly, “Sir.”

Mycroft contemplates this, too. He wonders whether he would have said that three years ago. He doubts it. Everything about his pregnancy was deeply private, then, the whole endeavour. Even after Violet was born, he felt a need to protect the idea of his child from everything around him. But more so, he assumed ridicule. Negativity - whispered, hidden.

Now, Mycroft knows that Anthea, whatever she might think of his choices, does not see him as reduced by them. Mycroft is aware that when he is visibly pregnant he will face a certain amount of prejudice again, but the difference is that this time he is much more comfortable with the role.

It is not a well-protected weakness. It is not a sad nod to his omega-ness, a defect of emotion, or a giving in, to have children. It most definitely is not to Mycroft.

 

-

 

That night at Baker Street, Mycroft lingers somewhat. He allows Violet to show him a present Mrs. Hudson got her, a - frankly ghastly – keyboard with animals that when pressed make the assorted noises.

Mycroft waits for John to appear, certain that Sherlock knows that, too, but unexpectedly he does not comment on it. He bonds, warmly, and then seems pleased enough to have him in his presence for half an hour.

When John does walk through the door, it is to the both of them reading police files. Mycroft did so only because Sherlock has them around, but now they are discussing a cold case he does find it mildly entertaining.

John smiles when he sees them. “Ah, doing some detective-ing without me? Holmes and Holmes?”

Mycroft says, calmly, “I would never dare to replace you, John.”

Sherlock says, trying to sound like him, “The legwork, _ghastly_.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft is not disagreeing with him. He would never pick a career like it for himself. But it is still said in jest, too, and he enjoys the faint camaraderie.

John laughs. He hangs up his jacket, and then says, “What’s up?”

Mycroft knows this to be his cue, as Sherlock looks at him expectantly as well. “I had the first sonogram today.” Mycroft reaches into his inner jacket pocket and takes an envelope containing the picture. It is only a black and white, grainy image, but he hands it to Sherlock. John sits down on the sofa, close to Sherlock, and looks, too.

Mycroft does not tell them that it could have been two. There is no need to, when all they are expecting is one. Both of them are staring at the sonogram as if it contains some hidden clue, some great image. Mycroft finds it touching to see. He offers, “I heard the heartbeat as well.”

Sherlock looks up sharply.

“It was strong and regular.”

John says, “Yeah? That’s great, good. Well done.”

Mycroft finds it a bizarre thing to be complimented on, but it feels like a compliment none the less. Something good, to be shared.

Mycroft leaves them the picture. He has the scans from Violet safely hidden away, but he never looks at them. He assumes that it will mean more to them to have a physical piece of evidence.

He has the feeling of it, himself.

 

 

 

 

 


	55. (John)

 

 

John can feel the excitement about the baby begin to build now. He knows that Mycroft doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it yet, but seeing the sonogram, knowing that it exists… well, it’s both scary and amazing. 

By next year, there could be a little kid in his arms that’s _his_. 

In the meantime, though... everything between Sherlock and him still feels off. Not completely. They don’t fight, not like, well, John’s still not sure what it was - Sherlock going off on his own, not even calling him to say that there’s a case, nothing at all. 

He thinks that maybe he gets it. That Sherlock doesn’t want him to be there all the time. They’re already so close and they’re about to raise a new baby, too, maybe Sherlock wants some time to himself first. To relive the good old days when he was the lonely detective, too brilliant to bother with anyone else. 

John tries to be better about offering to take Violet on his own sometimes, but Sherlock hardly ever wants to go away when she’s there. Sherlock even looks at him with some confusion when John suggests it, as if he can’t think why he would possibly go to the lab instead of just being home. 

Then John thinks that it was just this case - drugs - that Sherlock’s sensitive about. But that seems a bit far-fetched, since they’ve handled drug cases before. 

The only other thing that John can think of is the obvious one - Mara. And it’s not like that’s going well at all. 

John hasn’t told her that Mycroft’s pregnant. It’s too soon to tell yet, but mainly, well, he doubts that she’s going to be around long enough for that to be an issue. 

John knows he’s been using her. He tries to be good to her, he does try, but he’s cancelling often. He ignores her half of the time when she calls, too. 

John’s fairly sure that she’s dating other people anyway. That it’s nothing serious between them. Still, it’s sort of a miracle that it’s lasted as long as it has, and he’s loathe to break it off, because where else is he going to find that, really? Someone willing to be second best to Sherlock. John does know he’s an arsehole to her. 

He always goes down on her, though. Hopefully that makes up for it a bit. 

He’s not prepared for her to ask again, when John is trying not to fall asleep in her ridiculously soft bed, “You want to stay over?” 

But what the hell, he’s tired. “Sure, yeah.” 

John immediately texts Sherlock, kind of vindictively glad of the chance to show him how it’s done, “I’m staying the night, will be home in the morning. JW” 

John settles his arms around her. When his phone lights up with a text, he tries to ignore it and kisses Mara instead. 

Then, he does shift her from his arms and looks. The text says, “Fine. SH” 

Mara asks, “Why do you care what he says?” 

John is trying to determine whether that’s Sherlock being passive-aggressive or not, while at the same time thinking of what to say to her. He decides on, “It’s just good manners, isn’t it? He should know when I won’t be home.” 

“You have more ‘good manners’ for him than you do for me.” 

“Hm.” John closes his eyes and falls asleep. 

The next morning, John gets up and gets ready to go, when she says, “You’re always going to want him more, aren’t you?” 

John doesn’t bother lying. “Yeah. But we don’t…” He shrugs. “He doesn’t like sex. At all. It’s nothing like what we do.” 

She sighs. 

 

-

 

On his way home, John gets a text. “I don’t think I can do this anymore. Mara x”

And John finds that when he thinks about it, she’s right. It’s sex, but it’s nothing more. He thought it could be, for a while, but then... He’s not sure what happened. 

He sends, “Okay. JW” and doesn’t feel any different.

Sherlock, shockingly, doesn’t even notice at first. About a day later, he deduces, “You’re staying home tonight, you’re wearing a jumper. Why?”

John tells him. “It’s done, Mara and me. She dumped me, actually.” He smiles a little. It doesn’t sting at all, to be honest. It feels fine. 

There’s a pause. Then all Sherlock says is, “Oh.” 

“Oh?” John asks. He’d thought Sherlock would be ecstatic. Well-hidden, probably, but really, truly happy. 

Instead, Sherlock looks panicked. He says, quickly, “You’ll find someone else.” 

John can feel a rush of anger. _Jesus, Sherlock, what if I’m choosing to be with you, here? Just you?_ Shouldn’t that make him happy as hell? 

Instead, Sherlock says, “You should activate your dating site profile again.” 

John knows that this is Sherlock trying to be supportive and all that, but it kind of rubs salt into the wound, doesn’t it? Sherlock doesn’t want to have sex with him _that badly_ that he’s willing to commiserate about the loss of his girlfriend. 

And he’s urging him to get another. 

But John swallows it all down. “Will do.”

 

-

 

John doesn’t see Mycroft more than a couple of times a week, but they text several times a day now. 

John wakes up and says, “How’s the nausea today? JW” 

And receives back, within twenty minutes, “Manageable. I won’t say more. MH” 

John feels a flash of worry. He texts, more serious now, “Anything I can do? JW” Then, “I can go buy you digestives – loads. Or sparkling water?” Then, more amused, “I’d offer to hold your hair back, but… JW” 

It’s afternoon by the time he gets a reply. “Cruel, John. Do not make fun of a man’s hairline. But do feel free to remind Sherlock that it will happen to him at one point, too. I find there is a certain sense of revenge in that. MH” 

John does, and he sends, “Revenge accomplished, I would qualify his reaction as an insulted gasp. Hope that helps a little. Feel any better? JW” 

“I do, in the evenings. Thank you. MH” 

And so on. Every day. Sometimes they get in a quick back-and-forth, but most of the time it’s a flow of messages spread throughout the day, a bit funny, a bit truthful. 

John sends, “Hate my job sometimes. Just saw a kid who says nothing’s wrong, but he’s covered in bruises. The mum’s not talking either. JW” 

Two days later, John hears about that same family - the dad is in jail and the kid was placed into a foster home. John sends, not sure if he’s just imagining things or what, “The kid with the bruises, was that you? JW” 

Mycroft answers, “Abuse should always be stopped, John. MH” 

And then John remembers exactly who he is talking to. Mycroft can do just about anything with a snap of his fingers, can’t he? 

Not for the first time, John thinks he’s chosen the right person to have this kid with. If something happens, if something _ever_ happens, Mycroft will protect it. 

That’s how it should be. 

 

-

 

They offer to help with Violet even more. 

Mycroft sometimes takes them up on it, but most of the time he doesn’t. It’s not out of pride exactly, John thinks. He assumed so at first, but it’s more that Mycroft isn’t at all used to leaning on anyone else. That it’s a new experience for him, to have people care. 

John sometimes wonders how Sherlock and Mycroft were raised, for that to be so glaringly true for both of them. 

John thought about it before, back when his fascination with Sherlock’s otherworldliness was still new. He didn’t know him like this, yet. Then, he didn’t see how much must have been hidden under there. 

John brings it up with Sherlock. They’re sitting in the living room, both watching Violet play with some marbles. They roll loudly on the wooden floor, and she’s lying on her stomach, fascinated by it. Sherlock seems relaxed, sitting back against his chair, so John dares to ask him, “Sherlock, your parents... they still don’t know about Violet?” 

“No.”

“Why don’t you tell them?” 

“Mycroft doesn’t want to.” Sherlock looks at Violet for a long moment. Then says, slowly, “I agree.” 

Right. John doesn’t ask further, but that night in bed, when Sherlock leans in, John asks, “Can I hold you?” 

Sherlock hums in agreement, and John places his arms around him and hugs him. Not too close. Not too long. 

John lies there thinking about it afterwards. He has no idea what Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s past has to do with any of Sherlock’s issues, but John can feel a new sense of anger at their parents. 

And towards his own. 

Back when they were born, kids just happened to people, John assumes. It wasn’t so much a choice as inevitability. A _burden_. John never felt like anything else, growing up. 

He’ll never make his own kid feel like that. He’ll make sure they know they were wanted. 

So much. 

 

-

 

The next day, when Mycroft comes to pick Violet up, John asks him, “Could you stay a bit?” There’s something he’s decided. 

Mycroft seems to be mildly baffled as to why, but he sits down. 

John does as well and says, “When the next baby’s here, or almost here...” John looks at Sherlock. He hasn’t told him this yet, but he’s going to be pleased. “I was thinking to take a few months off from work.” 

Mycroft frowns, then says, “John, there is no need to compromise your career for the baby, we can get assistance…”

Hah! “Yeah, what career? I’m a GP.” John goes on, “No, I want to.” Sherlock will need help managing a newborn and Violet. Mycroft, too. It makes sense. John looks back at Sherlock. “If it works out money-wise, too, but yeah.” 

Sherlock seems surprised, mainly. 

It does feel strange, this. Sitting down and making plans with the three of them. Not that it wasn’t before, but it’s like they’re actually being a functioning family, of sorts. 

Mycroft says, hesitantly, “I can assist you financially…”

“Yeah, no. That’s not what I’m asking.” 

“If you are considering working less in order to help raise my child, then of course I would help you realise that in whichever way you choose.” 

“No, thanks, but we’re fine.” John grins at Sherlock, “If this makes me the omega staying home to raise the kids, please don’t tell me.” 

Mycroft says delicately, “I believe technically, Sherlock did that first.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Childcare isn’t limited to omegas, John, it’s not the fifties. And I can combine both.” 

“Yeah, but I can’t.” John means it, he’s thought it through. He’s always missing things. “I didn’t see Violet that much when she was small and with this one… I want to be here.”

Sherlock looks at him again as if he’s not sure why he’s saying this. “You’re certain you want to stay home?”

“Yes. Or for a couple of months, anyway.” John eyes Sherlock. Is it really that odd? He thought Sherlock would agree immediately - the two of them here for the baby, isn’t that what he wants? “That okay with you?”

Sherlock smiles at him, a tad uncertainly. “Of course, John.” 

John smiles back. _Choices_ , right? John chose to have a kid, so he wants to raise it, too. 

He’s damn well going to be here.

 

 

 

 

 


	56. (Sherlock)

 

 

John has stopped seeing Mara. 

And he announced that he is planning to take time off from work. 

Sherlock didn’t foresee either - and it feels dangerous. John will likely tire of it quickly, staying home. As he did with Mara. Sherlock knows that John probably is annoyed that it’s over, so he tries to be understanding.

Now that John’s home again in the evenings, Sherlock can feel himself looking at him, unsure of what to say. Unsure whether John is bored, and he should get them a case. Whether John’s horny, and he should try for that. What it is, exactly, that he can do for John. To help him find someone new, or to keep him home. To give into the inevitable, or to make him never think of someone else again.

They take Violet to the petting zoo again, and she’s a bit more responsible in not accidentally killing anything. John does have to save a lamb from her all too enthusiastic pointing where she nearly pokes its eye, though. 

They take her to a fair and let her fish for plastic ducks. They buy candy floss that Violet tries but dislikes, so John has to eat it all. They take her on the Ferris Wheel, sit her between them, and John takes his hand, shrugs, and says, “Well, it’s kind of romantic, isn’t it, a Ferris Wheel?” 

The late, dreary spring slowly changes into summer. They get the inflatable pool out again for Violet and set it up in the living room. 

They have a long walk by the South Bank, and as they walk by the bench where they argued almost two years ago, where Sherlock kissed John - John stops him. He leans in, clearly telegraphing what he is about to do, so Sherlock is prepared for it when John presses a soft kiss to his mouth. 

Nothing more. 

Sherlock takes some small cases just for fun, it’s nice to combine them with dinner, or a midnight stroll through back alleys and a stake-out somewhere.

John says, awkwardly, “Hey, if you want to go alone sometime...” 

Sherlock, in response, finds them a case that he knows John will love, and they spend all weekend trailing a drug-dealing group of baristas in various coffee shops through London. John laughs, and they both drink enough coffee to be vibrating off the walls. 

Sherlock hopes John knows that he’s sorry for ignoring him that day. Closing the bathroom door on him. Being angry. 

They hide behind some shrubbery in the suspect’s back garden to wait for her, and John takes his hand. Sherlock doesn’t like the distraction on a case, but it’s nice enough and he has things to make up for, so he kisses John. John pulls him in. 

They’re discovered kissing by an elderly woman letting her dog out, but she simply tuts at them and leaves.

They both laugh at it all the way to the arrest. Even once they’re home, Sherlock can still feel himself smiling. 

They order a take away and are eating Chinese noodles on the sofa at three AM when John says, “That was fun.” And then, his voice sobers, “I missed it. This.” 

Sherlock pushes the noodles into his mouth and tries not to feel too confident. _John missed this. John wants to stay home. He likes this._ “Plenty of cases.”

“Yeah… But I have work, and there’s Violet. We can’t, not always.” John goes on, “And next summer we’ll have a little one, too.” He doesn’t sound annoyed, just wistful. 

“We can do it again next weekend,” Sherlock offers. There’s always something in his inbox. 

“No, I have the weekend shift.” John sighs. 

They go to bed. 

 

-

 

It’s been months since they’ve had sex. 

John hasn’t asked for it at all. He hasn’t pushed, and Sherlock is glad of that, the space feels good. But he knows that John is lonely again, now. That he will feel the urge to very soon. 

And Sherlock wants to keep him like this. Close. 

So he aims a kiss at John’s cheek while John’s doing the dishes. 

It doesn’t lead to sex, as Sherlock had imagined. John just looks at him with a raised eyebrow and smiles.

Sherlock tries again later, when John is sitting in his chair, reading a book. Sherlock leans over him, puts his hands on John’s shoulders and smells John’s neck. John laughs, puts his book down, and says, “Go on.”

Sherlock presses his lips there, to John’s neck. And then licks a little, making John shiver. 

John looks up, still smiling, “You okay?” 

“Yes.” _Yes, John, I’m just trying to…_

“Hm.” John takes his book again and reads on. 

Sherlock waits all day until John goes to bed and by then it feels frustrating, but he knows it’s true. He needs to satisfy John if he wants to keep him for a little while longer. 

It’s a warm evening, so Sherlock strips to his pants. And then doubts that, because his chest feels naked. So he wears a t-shirt. But then maybe John won’t think that’s sexy enough. It’s too late to change his mind, because John walks into the bedroom.

John looks at him, and he’s noticed something, because he asks, “You okay? You’ve been… I don’t know.” 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say.

John sits on the bed and says, “Do you want to, um, the bonding thing?” Hesitantly, as if he’s not sure if that’s something that helps. 

But Sherlock thinks that’s right. “Yes.” 

“Okay.” John smiles, turns the light off, opens the covers, and lies down onto his side. 

Sherlock gets into bed behind him. He crawls close to the warm line of John’s body, and it feels unexpectedly comforting. Sherlock smells John’s neck, and John huffs a laugh. He seems happy. John always has with this, with the thought that he wants him, maybe? Sherlock doesn’t know. Sherlock carefully licks John’s neck. He can feel John hold himself still. 

Then bites down, not too hard. 

John breathes out shakily, but doesn’t respond more than that.

It’s dark, so Sherlock can’t see John’s face, but he feels fairly confident that John likes this. Sherlock leans over, licks, and then sucks, hard. John moves his legs and sighs. 

Sherlock slowly opens his mouth, and lingers for a moment. 

John feels tense. Sherlock wonders if he’s hard already. He says, into John’s ear, “Do you like this?” He tries to make his voice sound low and seductive.

“God!” John laughs, a desperate laugh, and moves his legs again. John turns his head and says, “Sherlock, I do, I really do, but you should know that, um… it’s turning me on.” John sounds apologetic. “So maybe you shouldn’t, or…”

Sherlock says, already fighting the awkward, crawling tension in his chest, “I want to.” Sherlock takes John’s hand with the intention of lowering it down and says, “You can do it.” 

But John, instead of being happy as he was when they tried this before, stills his hand. “Maybe it’s better if we don’t.” 

Sherlock never thought that John would say that. “You don’t want to?” 

John sighs. “No... No, dammit, I _want_ you to touch me, I always want you to, you have no idea how much I do, I’m just… I’m trying here.” John laughs a little. “It’s been three months, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock feels a spike of guilt. He’s been selfish. He’d been afraid of doing that again, of having to go through it again, but he should have. 

He puts an arm around John and holds him, closely, hard, tries to tell him what he can’t say. _I love you, John. I need you, I…_

John says, a rumble in the silence, “Hey, it’s fine. Just stop and we’ll...” John swallows. “Yeah, we’ll just never have sex again.” 

Sherlock says, into John’s neck, “No.”

John breathes. “ _No?"_

Sherlock keeps him close and bites his neck with something urgent in his stomach now, maybe it’s the last time he can, maybe John will say no the next time, and he needs him, wants him. “I want to.” 

John shakes a little in his arms. 

Sherlock, wanting to show him, puts a hand between John’s legs. He’s not fully hard, but the fabric of his pants is tight, and John moves in his grip. 

Sherlock puts his hand between the elastic of John’s pants and his belly and pulls it down. 

Sherlock takes John’s penis in his hand and buries his nose in John’s neck. He moves his hand back and forth. He doesn’t hate it, it’s not horrible, to hear John’s soft sighs. To smell his arousal. To hold him so close in the dark. John says, quietly, “Hm…” and Sherlock speeds it up. 

Then bites John’s neck again. 

It doesn’t take too long. John starts moving, he moves his hips back and forth, pushes himself into his hand, too. 

John groans, and breathes loudly. 

And then he suddenly stills, and Sherlock’s hand is slippery, wet and hot.

John lies back. 

Sherlock lets go of him, careful not to get anything on the sheets, and gets up. He goes to the bathroom and washes his hands, feeling the strange urge to go right back to John and never let him leave the bed. To tell him that he’s his. 

When he comes back, John’s barely visible in the dim light. He’s cleaning himself with a tissue. 

Sherlock closes the door. He gets in the bed, feeling unsure. 

John says, hesitantly, “You know, once every three months is still worth it, too.” 

Sherlock knows that John is trying to tell him it’s okay. But it’s not. 

Not really.

 

 

 

 

 


	57. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft feels mostly well. 

He’s not certain if this pregnancy has been easier so far than the one with Violet, or if he has simply lowered his expectations of what he will be able to accomplish in these weeks. He is sick nearly every morning. He feels faint. He responds badly to certain smells, has to excuse himself from several situations at work, and miss some important gatherings, too. But he doesn’t go so far as to faint. 

In the mornings, he eats something small while still in bed, and that way he can usually settle his stomach enough to get through dressing Violet as well as himself without too many interruptions. It helps that he can navigate his own house while seeing black and white spots, and that he can detour to the bathroom, throw up, and then simply carry on. 

He has a similar policy at work. Most meetings are rescheduled to his own offices and near evening. He gets a room with a cot in the Diogenes Club and lies down when needed, feeling less self-conscious about that now than he did last time. There is no use in working through the worst of it, but he can be productive again after. 

It’s a strange balance, but Mycroft does feel good about it, mainly because he is aware of how very temporary it is, and that it is the last time. Those thoughts combined make the moments of absolute misery seem fleeting and the overall cause a comfort. 

And last time, he could not text John. 

Last time, he did not have Sherlock carefully bonding with him several times a week, nor Sherlock’s concerned looks and questions. 

Last time, he did not have Violet, and as difficult as it can be to have her near when he is feeling terrible, she is also the perfect reminder of why he is doing this. 

Mycroft looks at her and wonders what the next child will look like. Whether they will look much alike, being half-siblings. Perhaps this baby will be blonde, like John? Will they be anything alike in temperament? 

He has been told that most children do sleep through the night somewhere earlier than a year. That Violet is ‘high spirited.’ Mycroft wonders what a different child will be like to raise. He only knows Violet, after all. And as much as he expects to know the practicalities for another baby, he wonders about his preparedness for the differences between them. 

He considers how different it will be for John, too. Naturally John will be inclined to care more for his own child, so how will they make certain that Violet does not feel any less loved? 

Mycroft was somewhat shocked by John’s announcement that he intends to take time off. It will be helpful for Sherlock not to have to spend time alone with a newborn and Violet all day, and Mycroft can understand the practical nature of it, but he never considered that John would do that. He, himself, is planning on around five days of leave this time, but he feels highly conflicted about even that. 

Mycroft would never take months. He would not want to. As much as he loves Violet, being home with her constantly would be incredibly difficult. Mycroft is, and always will be, a much more natural leader and organiser than he is a parent. 

But perhaps John sees it differently? Mycroft always assumed that everyone prefers their chosen occupations. Sherlock does, but then the nature of his cases mean that he is very often available for Violet, and when he is not there, someone else is ready to take over. Mycroft has always completely understood when Sherlock did leave. Sherlock loves Violet, undoubtedly, but his work is his passion. 

But John… John steadily does his work, but he never seems particularly fond of it. He was probably more involved with his career in the army. He is with Sherlock’s cases, as well. Mycroft wonders if he would perhaps rather do something else? Or is it simply as John said, that he finds it more important not to miss the baby’s first months? 

Mycroft, at times, still finds that he does not understand either of them. As pleasant as it is to be in Baker Street, to sit between them, to be invited as such, Mycroft feels removed from it, as well. 

He cannot truly understand the love that the two of them share. 

Mycroft is aware that he himself would never be able to let John go the way Sherlock does. He is not certain whether that means that his own experience of love is more selfish, but he could never imagine himself doing that. Loving someone that much that one allows them to touch another as well. 

Mycroft does not comprehend how Sherlock does it. And why.

Or why John does, actually. Mycroft can understand the lower urges, but to simply go sate them with the first available woman, it seems not base as much as a shame. A sacrilege. Does John really care for that release that much that he is happy to find it anywhere, while he has someone who would give his life for him at home? 

Mycroft never comments on it. It is their living arrangement, and he has nothing to do with it. But still he feels a sense of relief, when Sherlock says, sullenly, “John broke up with his girlfriend.” 

Mycroft had suspected it from the surveillance, but he is glad to hear it confirmed. Mycroft wants to tell Sherlock to keep John close now, that surely it has been enough, that he can see how much Sherlock suffers. But he does not. 

He should not get involved with that part of their lives. 

 

-

 

The summer has been moving on steadily. It is a hot Sunday in July, and Mycroft is letting Violet eat some breakfast while trying not to smell it himself, when he thinks that perhaps he should go out with Violet today. She would like it. 

Mycroft fondly remembers the Sunday, months ago now, when John invited him to the park. It was just a simple outing, and John did say then that he would be willing to do it again, but still Mycroft hesitates before he texts him, “I am taking Violet to a park today. Perhaps you would like to accompany us? MH” 

John answers faster than Mycroft expects. “Sounds great. Come and pick me up? JW” 

And that is how simple it is. 

Mycroft feels a little taken aback by the ease of it, and the fact that John would even want to come along. Mycroft is hardly the best company. He often finds these social outings rather tiring. 

Mycroft looks outside and wonders how one dresses to visit a park in high summer. The more casual clothing he owns is more country wear, but it is not suited for this. In the end, he settles on light cotton trousers, casual shoes, a shirt, and a waistcoat. He would prefer to dress Violet in one of the beautiful dresses she has, but Mycroft has learned that when dressing a child, one needs to think of play first. So Violet gets shorts and a plain striped t-shirt that the nanny bought her. 

Mycroft packs an extra outfit for her as well, a lesson learned the hard way when it comes to Violet and mud. Then puts her in the car and prepares to drive, which he despises. London traffic is hell, even on Sundays. 

John must have been waiting, because as soon as Mycroft stops the car, he comes outside, carrying a bag. John raises his eyebrows when he sees Mycroft behind the wheel, but he himself gets in the back. Mycroft is glad of it, because that way John can entertain Violet. 

John brings a wave of heat in with him. “I didn’t even know you could drive.” 

Mycroft starts the car. “I do not enjoy it. The driver has the day off on Sundays.” 

John says, “Mrs. Hudson packed some snacks.” 

Mycroft makes a mental note to remember that. It is probably an essential of park-going with a child. 

Once arrived, they put Violet in the stroller, and John, without question, sets to pushing it. 

Mycroft walks beside him. For a moment, he doubts himself for even asking John along for this. John is simply doing him a favour, most likely. It cannot be that he enjoys this. 

It’s pressingly hot - Mycroft wipes his brow. He already regrets not staying in his air-conditioned house. 

There are people everywhere. Playing children, sunshine, water, trees and birds, and Mycroft feels entirely out of his element. But John keeps on walking, then steers them to a bench and takes Violet out of the stroller. John tells her, “You can play, but not far, okay?” 

“Kay,” she says, as if she has done this before. She walks a couple of steps, bends down on the grass, and starts pulling it out so she can see the bugs below. Or the dirt, Mycroft is not certain as to her intentions. 

John sits down on the bench. Mycroft sits next to him. It’s directly in the sun, and it is unbearably hot, so he loosens his cuffs and rolls his sleeves up. First one, then the other. 

When he is done, Mycroft looks up, expecting a remark as to why he is wearing a shirt at all in this weather - the truth being that he does not own anything lighter. The few weeks of yearly heat in Britain, he usually spends indoors. 

But John’s eyes are warm as he says, “I don’t think I’ve ever _seen_ your arms.” 

Mycroft offers, “They are reserved for special occasions.” 

John smiles. “This is one, then?” 

“I believe voluntarily sitting in a park in this heat qualifies, yes.” It is just nonsense, really, these sorts of conversations. But John always seems to bring that out in him. 

John points out, “You have freckles.”

Mycroft can feel the barely-there touch as John traces his skin. “Yes.” They’re hardly there. Just the faintest brown spots, from a past long forgotten. When Mycroft used to play outside himself, he imagines. 

John’s fingers are very warm on his arm. The touch is entirely innocent, but yet Mycroft can feel it pulse though his body. He is aware that he is sweating, a white-hot sensation all over his skin. 

John briefly strokes over his arm - his fingertips catching the small hairs there in a rush of sensation - and then lets go. “Violet doesn’t.” 

Mycroft struggles not to see anything in it. 

John knows him well. Of course he would assume that he can occasionally touch him. 

Perhaps it is simply that no one ever does. Besides a handshake, which Mycroft reserves only for those who deserve the respect of it, everyone else gets a mere tilt of his head. Mycroft just never does this. He has never done this, _friendship_. Not without a particular gain in mind. 

Although he is carrying John’s child, so perhaps _family_ is a more correct way of looking at it. Mycroft swallows. “She does have very fair skin. I put sun cream on her before we left.” 

John is looking at the lake now. The trees. Violet is much better behaved here than she was at home, where she was nagging, crying, and destroying her toys simply out of frustration. Mycroft knows that Sherlock is right to do this with her so often. It’s just that he himself does not particularly enjoy it. Although this is not too bad. It is busy and there are people visible all over and by the lake, but John chose their spot well. 

Mycroft finds himself studying John - his profile, his mild smile. Mycroft never fully considered how it would feel, to look at John and to know that he has his child growing inside of him. Their child. 

John, apparently not bothered by his gaze, says, “So, how are you doing?” 

“Well, thank you.” Mycroft says it easily. 

“You don’t have to lie to me, you know that, right?” John grins at him. He is always direct, much more so that Mycroft himself tends to be. 

Mycroft considers it, and then admits, “Sundays are always difficult, when I am alone with Violet.” He wonders briefly whether he has said too much. No parent should ever admit to having a hard time being home alone with their child all day.

John simply nods. 

Mycroft goes on, “The nausea is manageable.” How does one tell of the happiness and fear of this? Mycroft has not tried to put it into words. “I am glad of the reminder, at times.”

“That you’re pregnant?” John asks. 

“Yes.” Mycroft wonders if that is somewhat abnormal. Whether he should admit this at all. 

But John says, “I need to remind myself, too.” He glances at him and grins. “That it’s not all been some weird dream.”

“I would hope not.” Mycroft smiles, briefly. 

John says, smiling at Violet, “I’m glad, that we…” He looks back. “Well, more than glad, it’s going to change my life, too, it’s…” He shakes his head. 

There are no words for it. Mycroft knows. 

Violet starts whining, so they get up and walk some more. They allow her to stick her hands into a fountain and mildly splash them both. They walk close to the ducks. See a squirrel. 

John pushes the empty stroller, and Violet walks between them. She insists on holding a hand from each of them, and Mycroft would almost find it touching, if it wasn’t somewhat awkward as well. John isn’t his partner, which is exactly what everyone who sees them like this thinks, Mycroft is certain of it. He is not used to this, being one of the public. In fact, he would prefer to never be. But Violet certainly enjoys this. And John’s presence is, as ever, pleasant. 

They discuss some current politics, but mainly talk about Violet and Sherlock. The baby, too. 

They sit down on a picnic bench and eat the snacks prepared by Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft gamely eats some of the cherry tomatoes, bits of carrot, and pre-sliced apples from cling film. John allows Violet a biscuit after, and Mycroft has one, too. The heat is stifling. Mycroft’s shirt is pasted to his back, and even John looks flushed. 

And then there’s a distant roll of thunder. They both look up. “Figures, can’t be warm for more than two seconds before it turns.” John laughs. 

Of course, they are on the far side of the lake. 

They start walking back among the stream of other families hurrying home. But Violet does not want to sit in her stroller, nor be carried. She isn’t done and refuses to be hurried. Fat drops of rain start breaking the surface of the lake, and Mycroft is considering just scooping her up and forcing her to come along, annoyed with her dawdling, when John says, “Oh, we’re going to get so wet!” 

He doesn’t sound upset about that at all. Actually, he laughs at Violet. 

And Violet, who had been working her way up to a tantrum, looks at John and offers, “Raining!” 

“Yes, it’s raining, and there’s thunder, you hear that?” John leaves a pause, and they both stop, stand still, and listen for it. 

Mycroft stands, too, stuck between being annoyed that they can’t leave yet - it really does make sense to hurry back now - and looking at John and the way he seems to connect so naturally to Violet. John is right, of course, they are going to get rained on anyway. 

There’s a gust of wind rustling the trees. A flash of lightning. And then more thunder. Violet laughs, her shrill voice echoing over the water. 

John shares a look with him and says, “You want to run, Violet?” 

”Yes!” She starts going as fast as she can, and John starts running with her. The wind picks up so much that Mycroft misses John’s next words, but he can hear Violet’s laugh, and John’s low voice as they jog ahead together. Mycroft pushes the stroller. 

John waits for him by the public lavatories, taking shelter from the rain. “Do you want to stay here?” John is breathing hard, but still smiling. There are raindrops on his face. 

Mycroft isn’t sure, but the rain suddenly picks up more, hitting the roof and dripping off the sides, making the decision for him. 

“It might just be a short storm?” 

At that moment, another roll of thunder booms though the park, loud, and Violet looks up at them. Mycroft takes her hand, “It’s fine, just thunder.”

When the next a flash of lightning hits, and right after it a crack of thunder, she looks upset again, so Mycroft lifts her, and holds her. 

They wait for the rain to stop. 

In every other circumstance, this would be highly annoying - yet another reason why Mycroft is not fond of these nature outings - but the warm weight of Violet in his arms is nice enough. Her curls, wet now, bounce against his cheek. John is smiling at them. 

Mycroft says, “Perhaps I was overly optimistic in planning this today.” 

John shrugs. “She had fun.” 

He is right, of course. Violet feels heavier in his arms. She’s getting sleepy. 

John gestures, and Mycroft hands her over. She lays her head on John’s shoulder, and John lightly rocks her. John says, with a light in his eyes, “Did Sherlock ever tell you about the time we fell into a lake?” 

Mycroft has read it on John’s blog, as well as read the case report, but he doesn’t say so and allows John to tell the story. 

The rain doesn’t stop, and the sky continues to show a dark, overcast colour, so after a while they do make a run for it. John carries Violet and Mycroft pushes the empty stroller along. They’re both completely soaked by the time they’re in the car. 

Violet has woken up again and is urgently chattering, “Rain, so wet! Raining on the ducks, and on Vi’let.” 

John sits next to her, but as soon as the car gets going, stopping and starting in traffic, she falls quiet and dreamily stares ahead. She looks tired enough to sleep soon. Mycroft meets John’s eyes in the rear-view mirror as he checks on her. 

John notes, “Good day, today.”

Mycroft says, aware that it is true, “Despite the rain, yes.” 

John presses a kiss to Violet’s cheek before leaving. She gives him a weak ‘bye bye.’ John smiles at him, and Mycroft can feel a sense of warmth between them. “See you tomorrow, John.”

He watches John open the door and leave. 

Violet is indeed tired - she doesn’t want to eat much and whines though her bath. Mycroft puts her to bed an hour earlier than he usually would, and she falls asleep within minutes. 

Mycroft takes advantage of it and has a leisurely bath himself. He feels a bit heated. 

It’s only when he looks in the mirror afterwards and feels his cheeks, that he realises why. Mycroft puts some lotion on his face and arms and texts John, “I’m afraid I forgot to put sun cream on myself. MH” 

John replies within minutes, “Oh, no! You burned your face - your arms, too? Now we’ll never see them again. JW”

“I did. And yes, I’m sure the world will mourn the loss. MH”

“I love knowing you have freckles, by the way. I bet none of the evil masterminds do. JW” 

Mycroft stares at his phone. John ‘loves’ that he has freckles? It’s in the context of the conversation, Mycroft knows, John is simply joking. John does in fact know much more of him than most people do, but then Mycroft doubts that John even realises that. 

“I trust you to keep this a secret and only to reveal it under the highest duress. MH” 

Mycroft briefly thinks that if this conversation would ever be screened for code, it would appear highly suspect. 

John says, “Promise. I should probably tell you that I have a mole on my shoulder or something. Even things out. JW”

Mycroft laughs. He lies down on the bed and sends, “Careful, John, you never know what I would do with such delicate information. MH” 

And really, Mycroft is aware that he should work tonight. He hasn’t done anything but the most pressing - he checked on the files that came in today marked as urgent by Anthea and gave some instructions. He does turn to it, but then promises himself he can check for John’s reply after the first file.

It’s a small diversion. A friendship. Mycroft is charmed by the thought that John wishes to spend time with them. 

That is all.

 

 

 

 

 


	58. (John)

 

 

The day in the park with Mycroft was great. John comes home soaked, only to see Sherlock sitting where he left him at noon, still bent over his tubes and glassware. 

Sherlock hums. “Rain.”

“Yeah. Violet didn’t mind. Your brother on the other hand…” John grins.

Sherlock’s lip pulls. “He hates _the great outdoors_.”

“I got that, yeah.” John laughs. “It was pretty fun, actually.” 

John’s surprised that Mycroft asked him to come along. He even seemed happy to see him, which is probably saying a lot for Mycroft Holmes. 

John showers, orders take-away, and while he’s waiting he texts Mycroft, smiling at the answers. 

Sherlock eyes him. 

“Food will be here in ten minutes.”

“You’re texting Mycroft again.” Sherlock sounds curious.

“Yeah, he just said he got sunburned.” 

“Hm.” Sherlock goes back to his experiment, and John texts back, “If you’re trying to blackmail me about embarrassing secrets, don’t forget I have access to your brother, I can ask him all about you. The spots, high voice, god knows what else during puberty... JW” 

Mycroft replies, “I recognise your threat, but then I have photographic evidence of Sherlock’s own teen years. He knows not to tempt me. MH” and John laughs again. 

Sherlock says, annoyed, “Why do you think he’s funny? Mycroft’s never _funny_.”

“He is, actually.” John grins and says, evilly, “Don’t worry, we were talking about you.” 

Sherlock seems briefly insulted. “What?” 

“Good things, Sherlock.” John types, “I’m willing to negotiate for an embarrassing picture of Sherlock, tell me what info to give up and I’ll do it. JW” John thinks about it, then sends, “Want to know about my first kiss? I misjudged and head-butted her. She had a bruise for about a week. JW” 

Mycroft will probably think that he’s making it up, but he’s not. He was ten and desperately in love with an omega girl named Shirley. Funny, John hasn’t thought of her in years. John’s never told Sherlock that, actually.

The doorbell rings. John goes down to get the food and pay, Sherlock leaves his experiment, and they eat on the sofa with their feet on the table. John tells him about the park and leans back against Sherlock a little, enjoying the feeling of being close, but Sherlock moves away. 

Right. 

Sometimes he still forgets about the touching. Actually, he forgets all the fucking time - John tries not to feel the familiar flicker of rejection. He should be used to it by now. He checks his phone, but Mycroft hasn’t replied yet.

They watch some TV - something about procuring evidence in the fifties that Sherlock’s fascinated by - and lie in bed later, still listening to the occasional rumble of thunder. John’s always liked summer storms. 

He thinks of Mara. He’s not sure if he misses her, or just the sex. 

He did do what Sherlock said and put his profile back online, but it just seems so… empty. The awkward, boring dates. The desperate monotony of it all, because yeah, some people are nicer than others, but it’s always the same isn’t it? Where do you work, what are your hobbies - as if he has time for any. 

John’s fine not doing that, for now. 

And Sherlock…. John thought that he was giving him an out, last time. That he was finally saying what Sherlock really wanted to hear, that they can bond, sleep in the same bed, and never have sex again. He thought Sherlock would be happy with that. Relieved, even. But then Sherlock said no. After months of nothing, _Sherlock’s_ the one who said no. 

And then gave him a hand job, which - and John hates himself for this - was still good enough that he already knows he won’t refuse if Sherlock ever wants to do it again. 

It’s not even that Sherlock’s particularly great in bed - the opposite, actually, he’s stilted and awkward. It’s just that it’s enough feeling Sherlock’s hand there, smelling him, knowing it’s him. A single touch from Sherlock, and John’s whole body seems ready to go. It’s always been like that, hasn’t it? 

And it’s not fair. If he could turn it off, John’s sure that they’d both be a lot happier. No expectations. 

But he can’t. 

 

-

 

Going back into work is frustrating as hell, too. Too many patients with summer colds and sunburns. 

Mycroft’s not the only one who’s not used to the sun and spent too long in it over the weekend. John treats second-degree burns on a ten-year-old, then five more cases before lunch. He eats quickly and gets ready for the next deluge, then doesn’t get out until after seven. 

He’s in a terrible mood when he comes back home. He missed Violet completely, and Sherlock’s already re-heated some food from yesterday. 

There’s an envelope on the table. John looks at it, and Sherlock says, “Mycroft left it for you.” 

“Yeah?” John sits down, opens it, turns it around, and a picture falls out. 

It’s Sherlock. He’s around... twelve, maybe? Looking at a chemistry set with a deeply serious air. John smiles. He studies it closer, and there’s some of Violet in Sherlock here, actually. His hair wasn’t as dark yet, a bit like Violet’s is now. Sherlock’s expression hasn’t changed a bit, he still looks exactly like that when he’s experimenting. 

John doesn’t hear Sherlock sneaking up behind him, but suddenly Sherlock’s voice is in his ear, “Why did he give you that?”

John admits, “I asked.” 

Sherlock takes the picture and looks at it briefly. “Hm.” He doesn’t sound entirely displeased. 

John thinks he’ll frame it. Maybe put it in their bedroom? He’ll show it to Mrs. Hudson first though, she’ll get a kick out of it. He texts Mycroft, “Love it, thanks! Although, if that’s the most embarrassing you can do… JW”

“Ah, but neither was your secret, John. MH” 

John raises his eyebrows. Well. He’s right about that. 

 

-

 

Sherlock has a case after that. A countess died in her sleep, no murder weapon or other people in the house, but yet it looks like suffocation. There’s an obvious suspect since the only son will inherit all the money. But they have no idea on how he did it. 

John goes along to the crime scene, but all he really can do is draw the same conclusions Anderson already did - suffocation, but no apparent cause. 

Then it’s on to the morgue. It’s nice to see Molly again, it’s been months since John’s been by. Sherlock happily breezes past her to the corpse, and John shares a laugh with her. Some things never change. 

The autopsy doesn’t show anything more, either. She didn’t swallow anything, or inhale anything. No allergies, or asthma. 

It takes Sherlock two full days of researching and a break-in into a laboratory before they find a possible lead. The granddaughter is reading chemistry at Cambridge. 

After that, there’s a manic light in Sherlock’s eyes that John recognises all too well. 

Sherlock spends some hours in the lab, John tries to nap on a bench, and then Sherlock’s found the pathogen, new and apparently - _genius_. 

Sherlock is entirely too cheerful when they arrest the granddaughter for murder, telling her that it was “Entirely clever, too bad you ran into me or you’d never have gotten convicted!” with a rather indecent smile. 

John sees it and despite how tired he is after trying to work and crime-solve through the night, he rather wants to take Sherlock home and shag him senseless. Not that he could. But the thought’s there. 

Sherlock sees some of his look, because he says, “Dinner?”

The truth is that John’s exhausted, and Sherlock hasn’t slept in days, either, but who can say no to that, right? They end up at a hole-in-the-wall Indian place that Sherlock swears has great samosas. They laugh and recount the case while their knees bump together under the wobbly table, and John can’t imagine wanting another life than this. 

He’s happy, yeah? 

They are. 

 

-

 

Considering he had about three hours of sleep in the last forty-eight, John doesn’t think he should be doing any doctoring, and he takes the next day off, too. 

Sherlock surfaces for some food and a shower, and then goes straight back into hibernation, so John entertains Violet while Sherlock’s still out of it. 

John doesn’t mind the chance to go out with her by himself for once. They sit in the sunshine. Then do some shopping, since there’s nothing left in their fridge but what Mrs. Hudson thought to bring them. 

John keeps Violet out late on purpose, aware that Sherlock’s still catching up on much-needed sleep and that Violet’s likely to wake him, but he shouldn’t have bothered. When they’re in the middle of the checkout queue, there’s a text from Sherlock, “Going to the Yard to give extra statement about the corpse. SH”

John feels a bit annoyed that Sherlock didn’t wait so he could come along. There’s nothing he could do there, probably, but still. 

John takes Violet back, then on impulse stops in a bakery on the way, smiling a bit. It’s a special date. Or well, he missed it, but John remembers Mycroft’s face at the biscuits – he’ll probably appreciate this, too. 

Violet doesn’t have the biggest sweet tooth, but she’s happy to try anything, so she’s already mashing cake into her mouth when Mycroft comes to get her. He walks in, and John grins. “Hi.” 

It’s been a couple of days since John’s even seen him. He doesn’t look sunburned anymore, and John’s sort of annoyed to have missed it. 

“We’re having carrot cake. I have a piece for you, too, if you want it.” 

Mycroft looks at it, and then agrees. “Just a small one, thank you.” 

John gives it to him on a plate, Mycroft sits down in the kitchen, and John says, “It’s two days late, but I thought we could celebrate a little?” He glances at Mycroft’s stomach. Twelve weeks. He’s in the second trimester now. 

Mycroft says, cautiously, “It is a milestone.” 

It is. It really, properly is. 

Mycroft cuts a careful corner of his cake. He’s always so delicate when eating. John’s watched him like this often, always a bit entertained by how serious Mycroft seems to take it. 

“Plus, Violet needs to practise for her birthday.” John grins. It’s only a week away. They’re having it here again, of course. 

Mycroft returns his smile. “Indeed.” 

John can feel his gaze be drawn to him. It feels like he hasn’t seen him in longer than it’s actually been, for some reason. Mycroft notices, but he just looks back calmly. 

“Oh, and thanks for the picture. I don’t think he hated it, actually? I’m going to frame it.” 

“I did always like that picture myself. It shows him quite well.” 

There’s a small pause. John has some cake, too, feeling great, but there’s a bit of... he’s not sure. It’s _nice_ to see Mycroft. Maybe it’s because they text all the time, but John actually missed him these past few days. 

Violet’s still working on her cake, but she’s pulling it apart more than eating it, and as they both watch her rub some icing into her hair, Mycroft sighs. “We should go home.”

He gets up, and John notices, as he moves past, “Hey, you’re showing!” He amends, aware that that’s probably overstating it, “A little.” 

Mycroft looks down at himself. “Barely. But yes, I believe so.” He sounds a tad proud. 

And John can feel it hit him again. This man, in front of him, has his kid right there. John stands up next to him. “Can I, um?” John’s hand is nearly on Mycroft’s stomach. 

Mycroft nods. 

John touches Mycroft. He can feel the heavy fabric of Mycroft’s waistcoat and a bit of a curve under his palm. There’s really not much there to be feeling yet. John wants to laugh at himself, embarrassed that he asked for this now already. But as he looks up, he catches Mycroft’s expression. 

Mycroft is breathing shallowly. And John realises how close they are, exactly. Also, that he is basically _feeling him up_. 

Mycroft smells amazing this close by, the sweet smell of pregnant omega. He’s looking a bit flushed, too. 

John moves his thumb, he strokes it back and forth by the edge of Mycroft’s waistcoat. And then in-between the buttons, where he can feel the smooth, thin fabric of Mycroft’s shirt. It’s warm. 

Mycroft looks at him intently. 

The moment seems to stretch, and John moves his thumb just a little lower, to the edge of Mycroft’s trousers. He can feel Mycroft shake under his fingers, barely perceptible. He’s not doing a thing to stop him, though. Not saying a word. 

John looks up at him. 

He can feel his stomach clench the split-second before - yes! - Mycroft, in a rush of movement, leans down. Mycroft’s lips catch his, and John kisses him instantly, he barely breathes, he’s that eager for it. He puts his hand right between Mycroft’s legs, feels the shape of him, Mycroft gasps and... 

Violet yells, “Fah?” 

Mycroft stutters in the kiss, then pulls back. 

Violet kicks her seat and says, “Fah? Go now?” 

Mycroft straightens his waistcoat as he looks at Violet. 

There’s a moment of silence lying heavily between them. John can still feel the sheer rush of adrenalin. The hard throb of arousal, too. Mycroft faces him, takes a breath, and says, “John…” He sounds apologetic already. 

“Yeah, I didn’t…” _See this coming._ Jesus. John coughs. “Right.”

Mycroft’s face breaks. He seems guilty, for a second. “I apologise.” 

John feels a pang of anger. _Stupid. Never should have done that, Watson._ “Yeah, me too. I wasn’t thinking. Um. Sorry.” 

Mycroft nods. 

Then he turns to take a towel, wets it, and carefully wipes a protesting Violet’s face and hands. John takes Violet’s bag, collects her cuddly toy from under the sofa, and her favourite book from the bedroom. 

Mycroft lifts her out of the chair, and John hands him the bag, still feeling bowled over by how enormously stupid that just was. He _kissed Mycroft_. Would have done a lot more, too, if he could have gotten away with it. 

John offers, to Mycroft’s quiet expression, “Bye, Violet.”

Violet says, cheerily, completely unaware of what just happened between them, “Bye-bye!” 

Mycroft eyes him briefly, then leaves.

John can feel a pull to go after him, but what can he say? Mycroft is Sherlock’s brother, and John’s always known that he could never, ever go there. 

He didn’t know he _wanted_ to, really. 

Dammit!

 

 

 

 

 


	59. (Sherlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I'm happy to announce that this story is now completely written! *dances* It won't change anything about the posting schedule - three chapters a week really is the maximum my beta and my Brit-picker can go through. But the question mark over by the chapter count is gone, and I am feeling very excited over here *g* Thank you all so much for your support! Indy x_

 

 

Sherlock is pleased. The last case was finally interesting enough to keep him busy for days. The solution was something he’d never heard of before, and he could have thanked the chemist granddaughter all day for being smart and interesting and not just smothering the countess in her sleep the old-fashioned way - finally, a murderer with brains! 

There’s only a good case a couple of times a year now that Moriarty’s network is completely out of business. 

Sometimes Sherlock almost misses him. 

Sherlock goes to Scotland Yard several times to give the statement, to explain the procedure and tests that proved it, and then because they have another couple of cases they want him to take a look at. Lestrade’s chuffed because they told him he did an admirable job. It’s all over the papers, too. He’s happy enough that Sherlock gets away with taking a pile of redacted police reports home for later. 

Sherlock goes by the morgue to see Molly again, who’s preparing to write an article about the case. She’s clearly excited, too. 

Sherlock’s on a high, ready to fix it all into his mind palace. There’s some further research he wants to do about the details, and then the other cases he has along to look over for tonight. Violet will be gone already, but Sherlock will have her tomorrow. He feels _great_. 

When he comes home, John says, “There’s cake in the fridge if you want it.” 

He’s quiet for the rest of the night, but Sherlock wanted to spend his evening with the files anyway. He’s not done at all when John goes to bed. John just says, “Don’t spend all night on those, your biorhythm will be all messed up again.” 

“Hm, yes,” Sherlock replies and looks up to see that John’s gone already. 

Sherlock works until four in the morning, then tries to slide into bed carefully. He’s sure that John does wake up, but he doesn’t say anything, just turns around. 

Then he sleeps through John’s alarm in the morning, or John turned it off, because John’s already long gone by the time that Sherlock drags himself out of bed around noon again. Sleep debt only seems to get worse as he ages. John was right that he should try to get back to a normal day and night rhythm. 

Mycroft only comes in quickly to pick up Violet, and John works late, so Sherlock spends time on the new files again. John brings Thai food home, and the night is boring and normal. 

The rest of the week goes that way. John traded shifts with his colleagues in order to come on the case, so it’s only normal that he’s busy. It’s only normal that he’s quiet, too, but Sherlock can feel a niggle of doubt distracting him. Did John not like the case? 

He hasn’t even written it up for his blog yet. 

 

-

 

It’s nearly Violet’s birthday. 

Sherlock is looking forward to it. Mrs. Hudson is baking a cake, and Lestrade and Molly are coming. Molly already asked him what kind of gift a two-year-old likes. Sherlock told her picture books with animals, but knowing Molly’s taste he’s sure that there will somehow be something pink involved, too. 

More than that, Mycroft’s finally agreed to announce that he’s pregnant. Sherlock is sure that Mrs. Hudson already suspects, but it’ll be nice to see her reaction when it’s confirmed. Especially when she finds out that it’s John’s. She’s going to be over the moon. 

John seems happy with that, too. Sherlock is sure of it. Sherlock cites the numbers at John, how getting past the twelve week mark is very important, and how it greatly reduces the chances of miscarriage. John says, distantly, “Yeah, you’re right. Good news.”

When Sherlock goes by the morgue the day before the party - to return the coroner’s report on the countess - he looks Molly over and asks, “You’ve been dating Lestrade for a year. You’re still happy?” 

She seems startled by the question. “Oh… yes? I mean, it’s not perfect, nothing ever is, but it’s…” She smiles softly. “We’re good together, you know? It just works.” 

“Hm.” 

She frowns. “Are you and John not okay?” 

Sherlock doesn’t know if they are. He opens his mouth for a reply, and then finds… not much. 

“Oh, Sherlock…” her eyes turn soft and pitying. 

Sherlock tries for a smile. Then walks out, since he’ll see Molly soon enough. He doesn’t know why he hesitated. 

That evening, Sherlock tries to observe John to determine whether there’s something that he should say, or fix. John reads a book. John eats. John has a shower and gets ready for bed. 

It’s not until after several hours of observation that Sherlock notices what’s different: John isn’t glued to his phone anymore. He used to send texts to Mycroft constantly. Often laugh at them, too. Sherlock has stolen John’s phone on several occasions and read them for himself, trying to figure out why they were so funny. He never really thought they were that special. 

When John’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth, Sherlock takes John’s phone, checks, and sees that the last one is from a few days ago. It’s John saying, “Sherlock’s still asleep, I have Violet this afternoon, we’re going out, don’t want to wake him. JW” and Mycroft’s reply, “I imagine I will be there around six. MH” 

So it’s not that, either. 

Sherlock goes to bed, too, the first time he’s going to sleep at the same time as John is in over a week. As soon as the light is out, Sherlock rolls a bit closer to John and tries to scent his neck. John lets him, but he feels tense. 

Right. _Sex._

Sherlock moves back after a brief lick there. 

But John turns around, “Sherlock?” He sounds unsure. 

“Yes?” This will be it, Sherlock thinks, John will say something that he didn’t even think about. Is he worried about the baby? Annoyed about work? Is he lonely? Horny? Bored?

John laughs a little, but it sounds wry, as if he’s laughing at himself. “Never mind.”

But no, no, “John, tell me!” 

“…okay, then.” John is grinning, Sherlock can hear it in his voice. “I wanted to... I was going to ask if I can kiss you?” 

Kiss? Sherlock frowns. Has it been a while? He doesn’t really keep track. “Yes.” Sherlock shifts closer on the bed. 

John’s fingers find his face, then his mouth. John puts a hand to the side of Sherlock’s head, leans in, and hovers his lips over his for just a second before pressing them closer. 

Sherlock opens his lips obediently. He can feel John’s face against his own. John’s breath. The tickle of John’s hair. 

John slowly licks into his mouth. Sherlock lets him. It feels intrusive, he’s always hated kissing, but if this is what John wants then he can do it. 

John shifts - out of annoyance or arousal, Sherlock doesn’t know - and leans away. 

Sherlock puts a hand on John’s neck, and John breathes at that as if he likes it. Sherlock tilts his face, so John can kiss on. John does, over his jaw, too. Then back to his mouth, hard. Sherlock doesn’t pull away, but he wants to. 

John stops then, abruptly. He sighs and lies back. 

Was it not good enough? Sherlock is almost afraid to ask, but he pushes himself, “Do you want sex?” 

“No, that’s...” John moves. “Thanks, for letting me.” 

He doesn’t sound happy. 

 

-

 

Sherlock bonds to Mycroft the next day. They haven’t been making a lot of time for it, and they do need to be careful of that, so Sherlock tries to linger longer than he usually would. 

He looks at Mycroft, after, not sure how to bring it up. Mycroft narrows his eyes. “Yes?”

Finally, Sherlock asks, “How would you deduce unhappiness?”

Mycroft hesitates, then says, “Sherlock, pregnancy is hard on the body. It takes a toll on my work and perhaps my manner, but I assure you, I am not _unhappy_.” He fixes him with a serious stare. 

Sherlock frowns. He was talking about _John_. 

But Mycroft does seem tired. He’s not exactly glowing. He’s been irritable the last few times he saw him, too. Sherlock tries, “You’re unhappy?” 

“No!” Mycroft gets up. “Now, please, I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

 

-

 

They’re having Violet’s party on Sunday afternoon. 

Technically she turned two on Friday - John sang her happy birthday and made her blow out a candle. Sherlock watched it from the sofa with amusement thrumming in his chest. 

John seemed cheerful then, at least. John loves Violet, Sherlock doesn’t doubt that. 

By the time Sunday rolls around it feels like a special occasion. Sherlock gets out of bed and immediately runs into Mrs. Hudson, who’s already proclaiming the state of their living room not being fit for guests, and that she still has to prepare the fondant and pre-heat the oven. 

Sherlock cleans a little, and John, when he wakes and stumbles past him on his way to the kitchen for a cup of tea, throws him a confused look. “Did you spill something?” 

“No, I’m cleaning.” Sherlock might not do it often, but he does know where Mrs. Hudson keeps the mop. Mainly because it’s also where there’s the loose floorboard, and he keeps his more… delicate things, away from both John and a curious Violet, but still. 

“Oh, yes, birthday.” John looks annoyed. Then says, “Right, what do you need me to do?” 

They hang the yellow and green bunting that Mrs. Hudson bought all over the living room. Sherlock charges his phone so he can take pictures. 

The door opens at exactly five to two. It’s Mycroft, carrying Violet who’s dressed in a strangely elaborate dress and a clip in her hair that Sherlock thinks is a little ridiculous. He’s surprised that she hasn’t ripped it out yet. Sherlock looks at John to get his reaction, but John is looking at Mycroft. He nods, kind of stiffly. 

The doorbell rings right after that, and Sherlock goes to let Molly and Lestrade in. And yes, Molly is carrying a gift wrapped in an alarming shade of pink. 

They come up, say their hellos, sit down, and Sherlock looks at John again. 

Sherlock remembers Mycroft and John sitting together at Christmas for most of the evening, but this time John sits by Lestrade and chats with him, leaving Molly to awkwardly talk to Mycroft. She asks him how he’s been, and then falls silent. 

Sherlock takes his violin and plays, still observing them. 

Did something happen?

Is that it?

 

 

 

 

 


	60. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft cannot help but reassess his friendship with John. To look back on every aspect of their interactions over the last few years and analyse them. 

When, exactly, was it that he became this fond of John? 

Mycroft remembers fainting at Baker Street when he was pregnant with Violet, John finding out, and how much of an invasion it was at the time to have anyone know. 

Later, the night that Sherlock bonded to him the first time, and John there, in his hospital room. 

Mycroft remembers being heavily pregnant, taking John’s hand and holding it to his stomach so John could feel Violet’s kicks. 

Gifting John a watch and attaching it to his wrist on Violet’s first Christmas. 

Mycroft remembers moments in Baker Street, an endless succession of them. John cuddling Violet, John smiling at him. John being the calm, the fixed point, the one to look at when Sherlock is too much. 

Mycroft remembers John offering to have a child together. The shock of it. The brief moment of flattery that inherently came along with it, as well. 

Mycroft remembers both hugs that John has ever given him. One in pure sadness, when he failed to have a child again. And the second one, the smell of John along with the sense that he should be feeling joy, and not this rising sense of surreal panic. 

He remembers flirting with John, once, outside the tailor’s. 

Then there are the texts. John enquiring after his health. John offering to call him. John’s words on that small screen, implying him laughing, smiling, grinning, rolling his eyes. All of it so innocuous. The tone caring, funny, pleasant. Mycroft has treasured them. 

He deletes them all now. 

It is not nearly enough. John’s touch, John himself roams through Mycroft’s mind and body. He feels it again and again - John’s warm hand on his stomach. John’s thumb slowly finding his skin with the smallest of movements. John’s eyes. Kissing him, John _grabbing_ him. 

Mycroft has not been touched that way in nearly a decade. Possibly he has forgotten how intense it can feel, although he does not remember this from any encounter. He knows John well enough to intrinsically trust him, of course. 

And, apparently, to be instantly aroused by him in an unexpected moment. 

And that is it. Mycroft should have known that it was coming. Perhaps he did know. Perhaps he has felt it in the sheer, quiet thrill of being around John for such a long time now. In the way that he has treasured John’s presence in each and every one of those memories. 

When he slept in John’s bed, he felt plain lust. When John touched him so freely in the park, his heart leapt. 

But it has always been a mere physical foolishness. A desire, exactly such as many have for someone inappropriate. Something never to be admitted, to be kept in a corner of his mind and never too closely examined. It was always meant to remain there. 

And especially now that Mycroft is pregnant with John’s child, the mere thought is _outrageous_. Dangerous. It would threaten everything they have built in these last few years between the three of them. The trust. The family. 

A kiss. It was simply that, and Mycroft is capable of seeing how very small a trespass it really was. Especially to someone like John, who routinely has sex with people outside of his relationship, a mere kiss is of no importance at all. 

But Mycroft has a very difficult time putting it out of his mind. 

Clearly they both agreed that it could never happen again, so Mycroft does not need to consider it as a fear for the future, or the thought that he would need to convince John of its wrongness. No, they are united in this. John has not texted again, and while Mycroft assumes that at some point he will - to inform him of some practicality - John quite clearly understands that this cannot be, either. 

So truly, it is unimportant. 

There are much greater things to worry about than an attraction that Mycroft can easily ignore. 

It has simply been a slippery slope of sorts. It is not unusual for Mycroft to care for the man who takes care of his child. Who is his brother’s partner. The father of the child he carries. He is allowed a connection of sorts. But he placed a value on it that it never should have had. 

Mycroft can ignore this, naturally. 

 

-

 

Nevertheless, the next few days seem to drag. 

The warm weather that seemed so bright and pleasant in the park, now feels clammy. Mycroft does not find it very bearable at all, especially when he is nauseous and dizzy, when the sweat prickles on his neck and under his arms. 

He is in the second trimester of pregnancy now and that should be a comfort, but Mycroft finds it difficult to celebrate it yet. There is always the next step to be taken. The next check, the next sonogram, the next moment to confirm that this is real. 

He will have the amniocentesis in a week. And while with Violet, Mycroft wished to see every single detail of this being that he carried, now he feels somewhat more uncertain. He will still have it done, since he does not doubt the necessity of it. But it is the knowing that seems like a somewhat uncertain thing. Omega, alpha, or beta? Boy or girl? 

Will he feel differently about this child once he knows for sure what it is?

Mycroft carefully avoids John for most of the week. He only runs into him again a couple of days before Violet’s birthday party. 

John stills on the stairs, and Mycroft can feel his heartbeat pick up. He scolds himself and says, pleasantly, he hopes, “John.” 

John nods. “Hi, yes, I…” He shakes his head, then says, seemingly determined to discuss it, “Look, it doesn’t need to mean anything, right?”

John asks it hopefully, but the truth is that it does. They are closer than they should be. Mycroft has allowed himself too much. So Mycroft says, aware that it is not the answer that John wishes for, “I believe some distance between us will be necessary.” 

John seems a bit taken aback at that. And then says, “Okay. If you… okay.” 

Part of Mycroft wants to apologise for his own weakness, because while John is well known to flirt with anyone, Mycroft himself is not. And if he had been more in control of himself, it never would have happened. 

As Mycroft stands there, he realises that he never should have let John see so much of him. Let so many of his defences down. John can read him, or at least some of him - Mycroft has never kissed anyone who knew him half as well as John does. 

And maybe that is why it feels so painful to see John take a last look back and go. 

Maybe that is why Mycroft grips the banister and takes a long moment before he can go up, collect his daughter, and face Sherlock without giving anything away. 

To desire John, the one that Sherlock so very much loves, is despicable. Mycroft knows it. And it is with guilt that he goes upstairs, and allows Sherlock to bond to take care of his unborn child. 

Sherlock must never know it happened. 

 

-

 

Violet’s birthday is here, and there is no escaping it. 

Not that Mycroft would want to, he would not want this to influence Violet’s life negatively in any way, and he is aware that while a year ago she did not realise that the whole party was for her, now she does have an idea. 

According to Sherlock, John has been practising blowing out candles with her. 

Mycroft dresses himself in a suit that just fits. He is aware that if he does not wish anyone to know that he is showing he needs a wider one, but since he prepares to tell anyway, he would rather look his best. 

Violet has a special dress, featuring ribbons and a print of balloons. Mycroft is cautious enough to only put her into it the moment before they leave and to pack an alternate outfit for later, but for this moment, she looks lovely. There is a hair clip involved that Mycroft finds rather silly but the nanny insisted upon. Violet does have enough hair now to warrant the occasional cut, but it is a halo of hazy curls, not particularly tameable. Still, Mycroft awkwardly puts it in her hair.

Mycroft lets himself into 221 Baker Street and walks up the stairs with Violet. 

And then there is John again, of course. Mycroft cannot help but note the moment where his gaze meets John’s. Where otherwise there would have been smiles, some fondness, now it feels as an absence of both. A divide between them. 

But the moment passes very quickly. John focuses on Violet, Mycroft talks to Sherlock, and then the guests are there. 

Sherlock plays his violin, and Mycroft speaks to Miss Hooper for a short while, then pretends to mind Violet, but the truth is that she does not much wish to be minded, and that she is very happy to be entertained by all the adults here. 

Mrs. Hudson presents the cake, John takes Violet on his lap, then prompts her to make the blowing motion, and together they blow out her two candles. 

John does most of the work, but Violet’s glee is explosive, she giggles and claps her hands and screeches all the way through a - frankly horrible - rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’. It is mostly spoken by both John and Inspector Lestrade, and sung by Mrs. Hudson, Miss Hooper and Sherlock - who is the only one who can carry a tune. Mycroft himself does not even attempt it, but he does watch Violet. He sees her look around in pure joy and knows that this is right for her. 

That he, despite the small moment of distraction with John, should be here. 

As Violet runs up and hugs his knees, Mycroft helps her onto his lap and thinks that he should put it aside. Bury it, as John has undoubtedly already done as well. 

They are bound by family. By the child he carries. 

Violet opens her presents. Most are plastic and pink and will be left at Baker Street, Mycroft will not have any of it in his house, but he still thanks them politely. 

The cake is cut, and Violet runs from person to person to get small bits from their plate instead of eating any of her own. Mycroft finds it unhygienic, but he can see that she does it mostly because of the reception she receives. She gets nothing but smiles, willing arms, and people to play with, and that is a vision of the world that Mycroft envies. One that he thinks she should perhaps be allowed to keep for as long as she can throughout childhood. 

After, Sherlock goes back to his violin because he does not know how to entertain a party any other way. Violet sits with Miss Hooper, who reads a pony book to her, looking both a little awkward to be holding a child and proud to be chosen. Inspector Lestrade is talking to Mrs. Hudson and John about a funny case. 

And Sherlock looks at him and gives him a questioning look. Mycroft knows what he is asking. Sherlock wants to announce it. 

Mycroft nods in agreement. 

Sherlock stops playing in the middle of his rendition of _Fur Elise_ , and they all look at him. 

Mycroft feels a sense of discomfort, he has never in his life broadcast something as personal as this to a room full of people. But, dutifully, he says, “I believe it is time to make an announcement.” 

Mrs. Hudson turns to him. “Oh!” She smiles widely. She already knows. She must have smelled it, Mycroft realised she did when she saw him in the front hall holding onto the wall a couple of weeks back, handed him a glass of sparkling water, and said, “I know it’s hard, dear.” 

John’s gaze is steady. A comfort, even now. Mycroft glances at him briefly, and then faces the others. “I am expecting another child.” 

“Really!” Miss Hooper smiles at him. Inspector Lestrade says, “That’s great, congrats!” And Mrs. Hudson says, “Oh, boys, you must be so happy!” She grabs John’s arm, and John holds her back. 

Miss Hooper says to Violet, “You’ll be a big sister!” 

Inspector Lestrade grins. “God help us, another Holmes.”

Mrs. Hudson says to him, “Oh, don’t be silly, Violet’s an angel!”

Sherlock puts his violin down and says, loud enough that they all hear him, “That’s not everything.”

Inspector Lestrade turns and asks, jokingly, “What, is it twins?” 

Mycroft suppresses the faint unease at the word. He never had that second child, and he should not miss it. He answers, “No, it is not.” 

Inspector Lestrade looks between them, still grinning, although he can pick up on Sherlock’s seriousness and sobers. “Then what?”

Mycroft hesitates. He knew that Sherlock would want to share it with these people, but somehow saying it feels rather intrusive. John sees and says, “Actually, can I tell them?”

Mycroft instantly agrees. Yes, it should be John’s news to share.

John takes a deep breath, eyes Sherlock, and then says, “Well, it’s mine too. The baby. I’m, ah, I was the donor.” 

There’s a moment of silence. 

Miss Hooper immediately looks to Sherlock. As if he would not know. _Really!_

Inspector Lestrade says, “Well, _bloody hell_ , John!” 

Mrs. Hudson seems taken aback. “You’re the father?”

“Yeah. I…” John swallows. He looks at him, and Mycroft can feel John’s emotion at this. “Well, the donor.” 

Mrs. Hudson takes out a handkerchief and says, “Oh, that’s lovely, oh boys, oh…”

Mycroft allows the rest of the conversation to go on without him. It feels very bizarre that his choice should have such an effect on these people. He barely knows them himself and yet he can see that their happiness is genuine. For John, Mycroft assumes. For Sherlock, because they all knew that he wanted a second. 

It has little to do with Mycroft himself.

When Violet manages to pull John’s near-empty glass of red wine over herself, ruining her dress in the process, Mycroft takes her and the change of clothes to the kitchen, puts her on the table, and strips her. 

Mrs. Hudson follows him. When he is done, she holds out a wet towel so he can wipe Violet’s arms.

Mycroft says, “Thank you.” 

And she, inexplicably, wraps her arms around him. She smells like a heavy, floral perfume. The skin of her arms feels loose and soft. _Frail._ “Oh, Mr. Holmes… They’re going to be so happy.” 

Mycroft nods, awkwardly still holding a squirming Violet half-changed, and says, evenly, “I do hope so.” 

She lets go and smiles a little, as if she thinks herself just a silly old woman. “I know it’s hardly... but I never had any children, or grandchildren, and Violet...” 

“...Yes.” Mycroft does know that she dotes on Violet. But he never thought that she would feel the need to tell him this. “Would you mind taking her?” He hands Violet to Mrs. Hudson to be let down from the table. 

They walk off with the promise of “Now let’s have a look at that next picture book, dear, it has bears!” 

Violet’s answering “Bears!” is highly satisfied. 

Mycroft considers leaving, preferably sooner than later. Sherlock is in the doorway, looking at him. “She’s glad.”

“Yes, I noticed.” Mycroft pulls a face. But Sherlock doesn’t mock her, not at all. 

Mycroft leaves the party a few minutes later, claiming fatigue. He leaves Violet behind so she at least can enjoy it. 

He cannot stand any more.

 

 

 

 

 


	61. (John)

 

 

John gets through the party. 

Announcing that the baby’s his was weird. The reactions were good, of course - John didn’t expect anything else. But part of him wonders whether they all think that it’s unfair that Sherlock isn’t getting anything. That it’s Sherlock who should have a baby, not him. He’s always taken care of Violet the least. 

Not him, since he’s never had the great urge to raise one. 

John walks amidst the remnants of the party after it’s all done and avoids Sherlock’s questioning gaze. He’s in a bad mood. The people, the whole deal. Work has been crap as well. 

It’s Mycroft, too, of course it is. They’re having a kid together and they’re not even talking. It’s all sorts of fucked up. 

John gets the urge to text him constantly. He’ll think of something funny, and he’ll want to grab his phone, and… he can’t. 

The party was even worse, because while Mycroft’s polite enough, it’s obvious that he doesn’t even want to get close anymore. He left early, too. John hates himself for it, for pulling this. He never meant to - he has no idea how Mycroft sees it - to disrespect him? To mess up their friendship? To take something that he knew he would never get? 

Hell, even if this wasn’t… Mycroft probably gets off with _royals_. Or first-rate prostitutes, John’s not sure, but the conclusion is easy enough - it’s never going to happen. He doesn’t need it to. He just wants it to be gone. 

Mrs. Hudson has gone downstairs because her hip is bothering her, and John sits down on the sofa in between half-empty plates and pink wrapping paper. He leans back and presses his fingers against his temples. 

Sherlock moves through the room. John doesn’t look at him. 

It’s stupid. What, is he having a mid-life crisis? Mara, getting dumped, then kissing his… well, ‘brother-in-law’ doesn’t even cut it. John wants to get off, maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s always been the problem. Getting himself into one mess after the other. 

From unexpectedly close by, Sherlock says his name. “John?”

John opens his eyes. 

Sherlock is holding a glass of water and a painkiller. “You have a headache.” 

And he looks so _sincere_ , so utterly kissable, that John can feel himself smile tiredly. “Thanks.” He takes the pill, not sure if he really needs it, but he swallows it anyway. He doesn’t actually have a headache, just tension settled in his skull. The noise of people talking through each other. The day. 

Sherlock smiles smugly. He’s congratulating himself for figuring out the problem, John can tell. It’s hilarious how much Sherlock tries, sometimes. John loves him. He’s sure of that, at least. He’ll always love Sherlock, the mad bastard, the craziest thing to ever happen to his life. 

John says, while Sherlock is picking up a book in the middle of the mess and not even making an attempt at cleaning up, “Love you.”

Sherlock’s hand stills. He takes the book anyway, then turns around and says, with some difficulty, “I love you, too, John.”

John grins. Sometimes it’s like Sherlock’s from another planet, some alien trying to figure out the local customs. How to interact with people. 

Which brings him back to Mycroft, because they’re so similar, but so different, too. Mycroft told him on the stairs that they need distance. _Mycroft._ John sighs. “We should clean this up.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Tomorrow’s fine.” 

John stays on the sofa. He doesn’t reply, but yeah. 

Tomorrow will do.

 

-

 

John’s thinking about giving his notice at work.

He wanted to use all of his leave, first, and then take an extended leave of absence. But he barely has any days left, all they need is another good case and he’s run out for the year. Or for Violet to get sick, or Mycroft to need bed rest, or any combination of things. 

More than that, though, John’s about done with being a GP. 

It’s never been a hard job, really. He just sort of wades through most days, one person after the next. John sees anywhere between twenty and fifty people a day with a variety of symptoms. It can be interesting occasionally. But the truth is that anything he even cares to hear about is rare, because it’s never just symptoms, it’s always _talking_ , people’s endless blather. 

John often fazes out, and then when they’re finally done chatting prescribes what he would have prescribed if only they would have walked in and said, ‘a cold’ instead of a twenty-minute list of things they did and felt and…

John sits in his office for most of the day, pretending to listen. Eyeing his phone. 

He wants to say half a dozen things to Mycroft and none of them are relevant at all. 

John wants to joke about his last patient. 

He wants to tell Mycroft that it’s so boring at work that he’s considering climbing out the window and just hoping they’ll forget he was ever here. John is sure that if he would have sent that before, Mycroft would have offered him a black car escape. Maybe a pretend kidnapping. Or something else completely over the top and also strangely touching. 

And you know what, he’s done with that, too. It’s stupid to avoid each other. Immature even, and John knows that if he implies as much to Mycroft, he’s going to get a reaction out of him. Sherlock would gasp, but Mycroft would just eye him with a mild insult in his eyes. 

So John texts, “This is stupid. Can we talk? JW” 

And he feels better right after he’s sent it. There. _Being the mature one._

Then there’s no reply at all. John gets through the next five patients by promising himself that after each one, he can check his phone. 

Nothing. 

It doesn’t mean anything, Mycroft’s probably busy and not expecting a text from him. John knows that’s bullshit, though. Mycroft’s worse than Sherlock, he’s always, _always_ reachable. 

By the time it’s five to six, John is ready to go out and hit someone. Or, alternatively, to drink himself into a stupor. Yeah, that sounds like a great idea. He’s not going home like this, because just seeing Mycroft when he’ll come to pick Violet up, _no_. 

John sends to Sherlock, “I’m getting a drink, won’t be home yet. JW” 

Sherlock will think he’s on a date, but god, let him. It’s probably better than ‘I don’t want to deal with any of this shit so I’m going out alone.’ 

 

-

 

John walks into the first pub he recognises. He’s been here before. With Greg once, but more often alone when Sherlock was dead, and oh, isn’t that just what he needs, another reminder of _that_. 

How he’s never been in control of anything in his life. 

And now that he is, now that the baby was his idea, now that he is with Sherlock, all of it... John still doesn’t know what to do with Sherlock. How close to get, how to make him happy. How to have a relationship with him. 

And really, he should have figured it out by now, shouldn’t he? It’s been _years_. But it’s still not great. What if it never is? What if it’s always going to be both brilliant and terrible? What if the chases and cases, sitting together, sharing a bed is all the joy - and the sex, touching, kissing, all of that was never meant to be? 

He never should have tried, John thinks. Kissing Sherlock, that very first time - it should have stayed just a thought. 

He doesn’t really mean that. He would have missed out on all of it, but dammit, it’s been a mess! Other people don’t deal with this crap. Other people just get together, fuck, marry, have kids. Simple. 

John thinks that sounds sort of relaxing compared to his life. 

He’s on his fourth pint in an hour, two glasses of whisky thrown in. He’s planning to get nicely smashed. The pub has filled up with the after-work crowd. Rowdy city boys by the bar. A group of women having shots in too-short skirts. John raises his glass to one of them, he doesn’t even care which one, and she laughs, but then turns her back on him. 

He gets the message. _Too old, yeah?_

When John gets up for a piss, the barstool seems to shift, the floor’s uneven, and he realises that he hasn’t gotten drunk like this in quite a while. Might be a cheaper night than he thought it would be, if he’s this drunk already.

John uses the cold, stinking loo, washes his hands, and goes back. 

Another beer, and he grabs some nuts, too. Half-watches cricket on the TV with the sound turned off, his mind still reeling, but it’s being softened by the alcohol. 

John always got why Harry’s an alcoholic. 

Why Dad is, too - he isn’t dead yet, actually, not last John heard. John almost laughs, the bitterness choking him - _did he go out and drink, too, when he heard he’d have a kid?_

John hardly ever thinks of him, so the fact that he does now is enough to tell him that this isn’t going too well. His life on the surface, yeah, birthday party and baby and hot alpha boyfriend. 

But underneath….

John has lost count as to how many beers he’s in. Nothing too crazy, he thinks, he’s only been here an hour or two. He’ll go home, after. 

Just one more, and then he’ll tell Sherlock he’s sorry, but that he needed a night off. One more, and he’ll deal with the fact that he royally messed up with Mycroft. One more, and he can deal with work. One more, and he’ll forget about it all, sleep it off, and move on. 

Everyone’s allowed that much, aren’t they? 

But the thing is, he isn’t even enjoying this. John empties his pint and puts it down. He’s thinking about Sherlock at home. He’s sweating. The pub is crowded, loud, overrun by people having a better time than he is. He feels vaguely nauseous. 

But as the bartender asks him, “Another?” John nods. 

And then someone slides next to him and says, “I believe he has had enough.” 

John looks to the side. _Mycroft._ Figures. 

The bartender looks at him, and John gives in, “Yeah, okay.” The brush of Mycroft’s coat against his arm feels comforting, and _isn’t that just hilarious._

John takes his wallet and fumbles with it while Mycroft watches. John puts some tenners on the counter and waits for his change. He’s not rich enough not to. 

Mycroft doesn’t say a word. 

John’s not ashamed, and he’s not going to be. 

He gets his change and tries not to fall over as he gets his arse off the barstool, then follows Mycroft out through the sweaty crowd of a Friday night. The noise in the pub is distracting, it’s a whirl of lights and heat. It’s clear that this isn’t Mycroft’s scene at all, not nearly _posh_ enough. Mycroft has probably never spent an evening in a pub at all. 

When they’re outside, John can feel himself announce, “I’m drunk.” 

Somehow it’s important that Mycroft should know that.

Mycroft looks back at him. “I am aware of that.”

“No, I’m very... very drunk.” John knows that he shouldn’t talk right now. That they should keep anything important until later. “So I shouldn’t say anything.” 

Mycroft ushers him into a black car. “That might be wise, yes.”

John sits down, grateful for the end of the spinning. 

Mycroft walks around the car and sits next to him. John wants to talk. He wants to tell Mycroft _everything_ , although he doesn’t know what everything is. He admits, “I wanted you to answer. My text.” 

Mycroft says, “I did answer, but I’m afraid you were already drinking.” 

The car pulls away. John searches for his phone. It’s in his pocket - the same pocket it always is - but still it takes a while to find it. John unlocks the screen, and he can see five missed messages, including four from Sherlock, but he selects the one from Mycroft. “I am working late tonight, so perhaps tomorrow? MH”

John looks up at him. 

“I thought I might interfere before you ruined your liver completely.” 

John breathes. He’s really quite drunk. The car is a haze, and he can feel Mycroft’s eyes trail over him. “Are you all right, John?” 

John laughs, and it feels brutal. _Wrong._ “Ask me tomorrow, I’ll lie better.” 

Mycroft looks away. “Of course.” 

But no. No, John looks at Mycroft, sees the side of his face half-shrouded in the dark of the car, and says, “I want to text you all the time.” 

Mycroft doesn’t look at him. 

“I keep on thinking of things, stupid things, and I... want to text you.” 

Mycroft doesn’t reply.

The car drives on. It’s a smooth ride, or maybe it’s because John is drunk enough not to feel much. He lies back and leans his head against the seat. They’re driving though London, lit buildings trailing past the window.

“My dad’s a drunk, did you know?” 

It seems to echo in the car. Fill all the spaces with hot, throbbing shame. 

Mycroft’s voice is calm, “I did.” 

“I haven’t seen him in twenty years. Not going to. Ever again.” 

John wants to slide down and lean on Mycroft’s shoulder. He is very aware that he _shouldn’t_ , but it’s the sort of thing he needs to remind himself of every minute or so. 

Mycroft says, cautiously, “My parents do not know about Violet. They will not know about the next child, either.”

John’s always wondered about that. “Why? What did they do?” 

Mycroft looks out the window. When the reply comes, it’s slow. “Their best, I imagine.” 

John frowns. He can feel his drunkenness in waves. Sitting still is helping him think somewhat, and he knows it’s important, what Mycroft just said. Sherlock mentioned once, as if it was nothing, ‘We didn’t see other children until I was six.’ So that’s why John says, “You didn’t play with other children?” 

“No.” Mycroft swallows. “Do not concern yourself. I merely wished to say that we can make different choices than our parents did. We already are.” 

John nods, then says, achingly, “I‘m sorry. For... kissing.” 

Mycroft shifts on his seat. “We can discuss this when you are sober.” 

But John doesn’t want to wait. He feels a wave of melancholy being in this warm enclosed space with Mycroft’s voice nearby. “I want to talk, about... the baby, and…” John smiles at the thought, the baby! “All of it, it’s… we’re friends, right?” He hates the longing tone in his voice. “I don’t want to lose that.” 

Mycroft says, gently, “You will not lose that, John.” 

John breathes, relieved.

Mycroft smiles at him, and John basks in it. 

Eventually, the car stops, and John’s home. 

Mycroft gets out, then comes around the other side, and helps him up. Mycroft opens the front door, and they scale the stairs together. Then Sherlock is there, taking over, and the next moment John’s lying on the sofa, watching the ceiling spin. John can barely keep track of it. He can hear them talking, but they don’t sound angry, so that’s enough. 

He closes his eyes and sleeps.

 

 

 

 

 


	62. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock lies alone in the empty bed, because John is loudly snoring on the sofa. Drunk. 

Mycroft picked him up after his work ran late. Sherlock already put Violet to sleep, which was more of a struggle than usual. At two years old she’s not happy with _having_ to do anything. Sherlock tried reading to her, playing music, then lying next to her, but it took almost two hours before she was finally asleep. 

And then Mycroft came up, with John leaning on him and smiling widely, as if it was all a lot of fun. “Sheeeeerlock!” 

Mycroft said, “He was in the Queen’s Head pub.” 

Together they managed to get John on the sofa. Sherlock passed Violet to Mycroft and let them go. He took John’s shoes off and put a blanket over him. 

John hasn’t gotten drunk on his own for a long time. The Queen’s Head pub… John used to go there when he was dead - Sherlock studied Mycroft’s surveillance files afterwards. He knows everything John did when he was gone. 

Sherlock already deduced that John had a fight with Mycroft. Or second thoughts, or something like that. It was obvious at the party. But that can’t be everything. 

Sherlock wonders if John is having second thoughts about the rest, too. 

 

-

 

Sherlock wakes up early, calls in sick for John, and then puts a glass of water with a painkiller next to John on the living room floor. 

Sherlock thinks of asking Mrs. Hudson for a greasy breakfast later in the day.

When John wakes up, he groans for a bit. And then, when Sherlock comes closer, he gets up, holds on to the table, and hurries to the bathroom. 

Sherlock can hear him retch. He hesitates, and then follows. “John?” 

John sounds muffled, “Yeah, I’ll be out soon, gotta be at work... what time is it?”

“I called in sick for you.” 

There’s a pause. Sherlock isn’t sure if John wanted him to call - does it imply something, calling in sick at work for someone else? 

Then, _“Thank god.”_

Sherlock smiles. So that was right. At least he’s getting better at things like this. 

Sherlock puts some coffee on. 

They have a quiet day. John takes a long shower, and then goes back to sleep for a while. By the time the nanny brings Violet, John’s a bit less green in the face. He even comes along to the park, which is always infinitely more interesting with John there. It’s September now, and the weather is already turning again. There are heavy clouds, predicting rain. 

John doesn’t seem to mind. 

Sherlock plays with Violet, and John shuffles along with them and holds her hand. Sherlock wants to ask him why he got so drunk, but he’s not certain he should. Was John just trying to find a date? Or something else? John wouldn’t leave. He can’t, he won’t, now that they have another baby coming. 

Or would he? 

Mycroft finishes work early today and comes by when Violet is still eating her fruit - a banana held in her sticky fist.

Sherlock observes John, and the way he turns around when Mycroft comes in. Careful, but hopeful. Mycroft nods at John, hesitating as well. “How is the hangover?” He says it as if he wants to know. 

John seems relieved. He mock-winces and says, “Major, but yeah, my own fault.” 

Mycroft eyes him. 

John says, “Thanks for, um, getting me.” He grins. “Would have been a lot worse if you didn’t stop me when you did.”

There’s a long moment where they both look at each other. Then John offers, “Violet’s going to need a bath when you’re home, she jumped in a puddle.” 

Mycroft takes Violet, leaves, and as soon as he’s gone and the door downstairs is closed, John sits down again. He’s still feeling a bit sick, probably, but he seems relieved. 

Sherlock says, “You made up.” 

“What?” John looks at him, an absent-minded expression on his face. 

“You and Mycroft. You made up. Yesterday.” 

John swallows. “Yeah, it’s… I suppose?” 

Sherlock grins. He could deduce that, at least. He falls down on the sofa. John is feigning interest in yesterday’s newspaper, and Sherlock glances at him from under his eyelashes. “What was it about?” 

John’s hidden behind the paper. “It’s…” He sounds as if he’s about to lie. Then sighs. “Nothing, really.” 

“Hm.” Sherlock keeps his eyes away. 

John doesn’t want to tell him. Sherlock’s not sure if he should be alarmed. 

 

-

 

The next day, John looks at his phone and says, “Can we take Violet for the night? Mycroft’s having his amniocentesis tomorrow, he’ll need to rest after.” 

“Yes.” There’s a case Sherlock’s been keeping an eye on, but if it does become urgent they can leave her with Mrs. Hudson. Plus, this is important. “We’ll know whether it’s an alpha again.”

“Oh, god.” John smiles. “Violet’s great, but I’m not sure we can raise two of those.” 

Sherlock had been hoping for just that, actually. But, with John’s DNA - “Fifty percent chance it’s a beta.” 

John looks briefly pensive. “Would you mind that?”

“Mind? No.” Why would he? 

“There’s still people who think we shouldn’t. Mix.” John’s eyes flick to the side, as if he’s remembering something. Someone. 

“You don’t think that.” 

“No. But life’s easier for an alpha, isn’t it?” 

Sherlock would disagree. Heats are terrible. Even the bonding - it’s all so complicated, so messy, so filled with sensation. 

John must see his face because he says, “Everyone you meet is attracted to you. Betas just don’t get that kind of treatment, Sherlock. Or omegas, actually, god knows what Mycroft had to do to get that high of a position.”

Sherlock has a pretty good idea what Mycroft did. “I don’t want it.”

“Yeah.” John looks away. “I know _you_ don’t.” 

 

-

 

Violet doesn’t want to go to sleep again, and they’re up with her for half the night. 

Sherlock does work the case, but it’s over quickly. Once he accessed the file, the connection to the Ukrainian crime syndicate was glaringly obvious. Sherlock doesn’t know what they pay the police for sometimes. 

And exactly one week later, they’re both waiting on the sofa for Mycroft to come home. 

He’ll know the results. 

Sherlock has been nervous about it all day. He knows there’s no reason to speculate, but there’s so much that can go wrong. Part of the night was spent with both Violet and his laptop on his lap, researching genetic disorders. 

They take Violet down to Mrs. Hudson’s, so they can talk in case it’s not good news. It was John’s idea to do that, which means that he’s preparing for it to be bad in some way, too. 

Sherlock can feel the nerves ripple between them. 

“The chances for Down Syndrome at his age…”

John near-shouts, _“Sherlock!”_ Then takes a breath. “I know.”

Sherlock nods. 

The silence feels deadly while they wait. 

When there’s the sound of the door opening downstairs, Sherlock can’t take it anymore. He jumps up, and throws the door open. He can read it on Mycroft’s face immediately - Mycroft is allowing him to see it. “Healthy,” he blurts out.

Mycroft rolls his eyes and gets up to the landing. “Perhaps I could come in, first?” But he smiles lightly, and Sherlock can feel an overwhelming relief race through him. 

John’s standing by the sofa. He repeats, “It’s healthy?”

“Yes.” Mycroft seems altogether too collected for this. “I am assuming you would like to know the rest as well?”

“Yes!” Sherlock answers before John can. 

John chuckles. “Well, if you want to share.” 

Mycroft eyes them in turn, then says, “It’s a boy.” 

_“Really?”_ John seems surprised. Sherlock doesn’t know why, there are only so many options. 

“A beta, according to the blood work.” 

Sherlock can feel it hit him. A beta boy, then, like John. _Interesting._ He says, “You’ll have a son, John.” 

“Right... Yeah.” John’s face breaks, and he swallows. Sherlock, aware that this is a moment that John needs physical contact, offers his arms. John hugs him, quickly and tightly. 

Sherlock looks over John’s shoulder at Mycroft. Mycroft’s face seems open, he is taking in their reactions. Sherlock deduces, “You’re pleased.” 

John lets go, quickly runs his hands over his face, and says to Mycroft, “You don’t mind? You won’t have an omega.” 

Mycroft is still eyeing them with well-hidden satisfaction. Sherlock can hear it in his voice, too, “There are much more important things in life than that, John.” 

“Yeah, if it’s healthy...” John smiles at Mycroft, and Sherlock can feel the emotion between them. John wants to hug Mycroft too, it’s clear. Mycroft will probably allow it, but John doesn’t try to, and so they’re standing there, looking at each other. 

Sherlock steps behind Mycroft and holds him briefly, as much as a thank you from John as it is from himself.

Mycroft glances at him, then moves away slightly. Then says, “Is Violet downstairs with Mrs. Hudson?” 

“Yeah, we thought, in case…” John says it hesitantly. 

Mycroft nods. “I will go collect her. Did she leave anything here?” 

“Just her giraffe.” Sherlock says, aware that Mrs. Hudson will want to hear the news, “Can we tell her?” 

“If you wish.”

Sherlock shares a look with John. Oh, they want to. 

They all go downstairs. Mrs. Hudson has Violet playing with a battered doll in the corner of the kitchen. There is a Battenberg cake on her kitchen table, a fresh pot of tea, and a careful table setting for all of them. As they walk in, she looks up, looking almost as nervous as they were. 

Mycroft says, “Sherlock, I believe it is your turn to tell the news.” 

Sherlock eyes her. “It’s a beta boy.” Even just saying the words makes him grin. 

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson reaches out, and she hugs all of them in turn - even Mycroft, who pulls a faintly disturbed face - while saying, “That’s lovely! Just like you, John, dear. Oh, look at you!” The last is said towards Mycroft’s stomach. 

Sherlock thought that Mycroft would excuse himself as quickly as possible, but he actually agrees to sit down and stay for a few minutes. The cake has probably something to do with it - Mycroft never could resist a Battenberg. Or maybe he’s feeling like celebrating, because he accepts tea and cake as well as Mrs. Hudson’s happy nattering about babies and how betas are completely different, he’ll see. John meets his eyes over the table, and Sherlock smiles. 

Mycroft does eventually leave with Violet, and they go back up, too stuffed with cake to eat anything more. John sits next to him on the sofa, still looking a bit stunned by the news. “A boy. Knowing somehow makes it different.”

It does. 

Sherlock glances at John. “He’ll be like you.”

John shakes his head. “Yeah, let’s hope not completely? Maybe he’ll have Mycroft’s height.” 

Whatever he looks like, he’ll be perfect, Sherlock thinks. 

Their baby.

 

 

 

 

 


	63. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft feels somewhat bemused by the news. 

He did not have any real expectations, but in a small way and for no reason that he can discern now, he had assumed that it would be another girl. Perhaps because this pregnancy does mostly feel the same as it did with Violet. But he had not imagined it in any detail, so it is not as if he is disappointed. Very far from it, in fact. 

But to know that it is a boy, a _son_ , it does change something. 

When he had first heard about Violet, Mycroft had not been certain that he could be a good parent to a daughter. It had seemed so foreign. But now that he has Violet, the thought of a son is just as strange. Mycroft does not know what to do with a boy. He realises that that is untrue - he raised Sherlock, after all. But as an alpha, Sherlock had quite a lot more in common with his wild, headstrong Violet. Not necessarily with a beta. 

Like John. 

It was mentioned several times last night, and Mycroft has to admit that it was also one of the first things that crossed his mind when he heard. _Like John._ He does not know why that is at all relevant. Or a revelation - after all, he did know that there was a large chance that this child would be a beta. 

And the main concern was the health of the foetus, of course. Mycroft finds himself cautiously relieved at knowing that there are no genetic anomalies. Of course the test does not give any complete guarantee, there are so many conditions that they are not able to screen for at this point. There still is the chance of miscarriage, as well. But now, at nearly at four months, that fear is somewhat less pressing on his mind. 

And then again it is, but in a different way. Mycroft feels cautious not to get too attached to this child, because it could be taken from him at any time. But at the same time he cannot stop himself from planning. From having a future where this baby is with them fixed in his mind. 

Mycroft starts to think about the crib, supplies, and clothes. About bottles, and how to navigate the first months. 

It has all of a sudden shifted towards reality. 

 

-

 

Mycroft’s interactions with John have also normalised. Mostly. 

Mycroft had been glad to see John’s request to talk. But when he tried to track him down and realised that John was at a bar, drinking himself into a stupor… Mycroft had had an uncomfortable flashback to the days that he collected Sherlock from places much worse than that. 

He had to remind himself that overindulging in alcohol is both legal and socially accepted to a certain extent, and that John has done nothing wrong. That it is a common coping mechanism. And, with some guilt, that he is partly to blame for putting John in a state where he felt that he needed that sort of escape. 

It was John himself who brought it up. Addiction. Of course it would be a behaviour that is familiar to him. Escaping through alcohol seems to be the preferred solution to any problem in John’s family background.

So Mycroft tried to tell him the most important thing that he has found himself, that they are not doomed to be their parents. Or to repeat their mistakes. Violet is loved. She is hugged daily, kissed, played with, and paid attention to by many people. Violet has peers and social contact, as well as relationships with several adults. Violet is never left alone. Mycroft thinks it is perhaps his greatest realisation as a parent, that he needs to raise his daughter not only the best way he knows how, but also the best way other people know how. He is relying on their judgement to provide her with normality, because the truth is that Mycroft has no idea. 

He cannot remember being hugged by either of his parents. 

Or touched in any loving way. 

That is not at all unusual for people from a certain upbringing, of course. And not all of them have the same dislike for intimacy as adults, so Mycroft does not know how far that argument stretches. Mycroft himself did hug Sherlock as a child. Perhaps not enough. When Sherlock was older, it irritated him, and Mycroft stopped. 

Mycroft still feels guilt about that. About the nights that he was not there, and Sherlock cried without being heard. 

Mycroft has a good idea of John’s upbringing as well, so it is almost a comfort to see John suddenly doubt himself in this way. It means that he is consciously wanting to avoid a repeat of his own childhood.

And of course, the other things John said about missing him and not wanting to lose him... Mycroft knows that John is hardly as emotional when sober, and it clearly was the alcohol talking. But he does believe some of the sentiment behind it, because in truth, Mycroft himself has missed John, too. 

It is difficult to admit how many times he wanted to check his phone and find a message there. How painful it was not to talk to John when he saw him. 

After going by Baker Street and seeing John there, Mycroft sends, “The best of luck with that headache, John. MH” 

He is fully aware that John will likely interpret it as an invitation to reply. But Mycroft knows they cannot ignore one another indefinitely, and more importantly, he does not wish to. Their friendship matters to him. More than it should, perhaps, but what they really need to regulate is the physical contact. Anything else… it would be such a shame to end it. Not only for himself, but for this child. For Violet, as well. For Sherlock. 

They need this, and they want this, so it simply needs to be regulated better. There are lines not to cross. It is almost for the best that they did find that line, and can agree on never crossing it again. 

Mycroft gets a text back that reads, “Oh dear god I am never drinking again. Ever. Again. JW” and Mycroft smiles. 

It is forgiveness, he imagines. They can go on, now. 

And later, Mycroft tells John about the baby, and John looks at him with gratitude so clear Mycroft feels it dance between them. As if, while it is not a physical connection, it is binding the two of them in something like a touch. It is a beautiful moment. 

Especially when Sherlock hesitantly hugs him. Mycroft is not used to it, but he understands the gesture and he appreciates it. How all of them are connected in this joy. 

He thinks that he was a fool to ever jeopardise it. 

 

-

 

Sherlock, the next time they see each other, says, “You’re happier.” 

Mycroft is immediately on guard, because Sherlock somehow picked up on some of his confusion and guilt surrounding John earlier, and commented on it then as well. 

So Mycroft says, “You are aware I was worried about the pregnancy.” It’s not something he would normally admit outright, but the best way to lie is to reveal a minor truth. 

It works. Sherlock says, “Better odds, now.” And then, “John was worried, too.”

Mycroft purposely doesn’t answer that. Instead he says, “My next appointment is in three weeks, I will bring the sonogram.” And then talks about supplements and toilet-training Violet to distract Sherlock. 

 

-

 

The texting with John starts again tentatively, but as soon as they are both certain that it feels right again, Mycroft feels as if not much has changed. John is slightly less open, a bit more careful about insinuating anything, and so is Mycroft. But it works. 

Mycroft goes to Paris that week, to negotiate a particularly fragile deal with a weapons contractor. 

He does not take pleasure in leaving the country and does so only when necessary, but it is only a train journey. He can leave London in the afternoon and be back the next. There are perfectly fine hospitals and medical care in Paris as well if needed. Mycroft arranges for Violet to stay over with John and Sherlock again, and goes. 

The deal is every bit as tedious to negotiate as he had imagined, but he does get to insinuate a whole host of horrors the British Intelligence Agencies could arrange if crossed. Part of it is bluff, but he always enjoys these things. 

Especially the lavish private dinner afterwards. 

Mycroft is alone in the grand house’s hallway, eleven in the evening in Paris, ten in London, right after the dessert course, when he gets a chance to call and ask whether Violet doing well. John answers, “Hey! She’s asleep already.” 

“Ah, I imagined that it was too late.” 

“It’s just me, too.” John shifts, as if he is sitting on the sofa. “Sherlock’s on a case, something about a murder with an X-ray machine.” 

John missed a case for this? Mycroft feels a sense of guilt, perhaps he should have stayed. “You could have left her with Mrs. Hudson so that you could go along.” 

John sighs. “I have to work tomorrow morning. If Sherlock isn’t back I’ll ask her then, but for tonight I’m sleeping, too.” 

“All right.” There’s a slight pause. “Well, then I shall not keep you.” Mycroft is already thinking of the American ambassador who is currently lingering over a bourbon. He should speak to him and remind him of a particular favour Mycroft did for his predecessor. 

“Mycroft?” John asks quickly. 

“Yes?” 

“We’re… good, right?” 

John sounds serious. Mycroft shifts his phone to his other ear and looks around him, making certain there is no one in a position to overhear. 

“It’s just, I don’t remember exactly what I said when I was drunk. Most of it, but…” John laughs. “It wasn’t too, um...?” 

_Ah._ Mycroft should have considered that John might not have much memory of that night. He says, “You understand that I could say anything now. Recount some imagined terrible behaviour.” 

John laughs. “True.”

 _Oh, how nice it is to hear him laugh._ “No, you did not say anything overly personal. It was all quite _sincere_ , I assure you.” 

“Sincere? God.” John sounds as if he is expecting doom. 

Mycroft feels a thread of doubt. Should he tell him? Was it not simply enough to hear it once? He glances around him again and sees nothing but a hired waiter duck into the dining room. “You said that you missed our friendship, that is all.” 

“Oh.” John is smiling again, Mycroft can hear it through the line. “That was… true. Look, I’m glad that we’re fine.” 

Mycroft feels a flutter of emotion. “So am I, John.” 

“Good night.” 

“Good night.” Mycroft ends the phone call with a sense of lightness. 

Then goes back to work. 

 

-

 

Mycroft gets home the next afternoon feeling fatigued. 

The nausea rarely troubles him anymore, and in all he feels fairly well, but his energy runs out quickly. He asks to be brought to his home, not the office, and takes advantage of the unexpected free time to lie down on his bed. He texts Sherlock, “I will get Violet around 7. M” 

John sends, from his job, “Welcome back to England! It’s been raining all day, can see it on the window. Every patient that complains about it gets a sticker. So far I’ve handed out twenty-three. Most to old people, who are v. confused. JW” 

Mycroft smiles. He looks at the window of his bedroom and sees the rain trickle over it, aware that John must be looking at it as well, some miles across London. Mycroft puts his hand on his stomach and tries to feel the faint warmth there. The curve of the baby.

He texts, “How else would we know that we are in Britain, indeed. MH” The baby hasn’t kicked yet. Or not that he can feel. Mycroft puts his hand under his shirt, on his bare skin.

John says, “Yeah, but not all of us carry off an umbrella quite that dashingly. I’m too short to twirl, for one. JW“ 

Almost unwillingly, Mycroft’s hand trails lower.

He only rarely has the time for this. Or the desire. But now, his body feels more than ready to respond. He opens his buttons and slips his hand underneath the edge of his pants. The base of his penis throbs at his touch, and it rises instantly. 

He runs his fingers over himself, aware of how self-indulgent he is being, as he writes, “Umbrella-wielding is not given to everyone perhaps, but no gentleman should be caught without, John. MH” 

Mycroft puts the phone aside and pushes his trousers down. He slowly traces his erection, still trapped in his pants, marvelling at the small shivers it seems to generate over his entire body. He runs his thumb over the head and feels a bright prickle of arousal. 

His phone buzzes with a new message, and Mycroft - despicably, he is aware – looks at it. “Who says I’m a gentleman? JW” 

Mycroft can feel his cheeks burn. If John would know what this does to him... Mycroft takes his erection out of his pants, and fists it in earnest. 

He does not look at the way it seems to curve over his pregnant stomach, or think of how desperate this must make him seem. No, Mycroft simply closes his eyes and feels nothing but an overwhelming wave of need. 

His insides are slicking and clenching, and his penis is leaking just enough to make it less dry as he pulls urgently, and lets himself slide on the wave of arousal. He comes, feeling out of breath. 

He only opens his eyes slowly. Sees the rain, still falling on the window. 

 

-

 

When his alarm goes, Mycroft freshens up, and then leaves in the deluge of rain. 

There are road works on Baker Street, and the driver, frustratingly, has no choice but to drop him off on the other end. Mycroft opens his umbrella and walks, careful not to get too wet. He is nearly at 221B, when there is someone walking up from the opposite direction that he recognises from far away – John, very much rained upon. 

John sees him and raises his voice, loud enough to be heard, “The tube station was closed! Last thing I needed today.”

When he gets close enough, Mycroft says, only too aware of the teasing note in his voice, “As discussed, you should _carry an umbrella,_ John.” He raises his, so that John is shielded from the rain as well. 

It does not matter much, John is already completely soaked through with damp, dark patches on his jacket. His hair is wet and there are raindrops standing out on his pale face. 

Despite of it, John seems to be in a good mood. He suggests, “Get me one for Christmas?” 

They are standing a few steps from the door of 221B, pressed to the side to be out of the way of the stream of other pedestrians passing them by. Mycroft can feel himself smile. “...I will.” 

“Promise?” John smiles as well, drawing attention to his lips. 

_They would taste of rain,_ Mycroft thinks unbidden, still somehow stuck on his earlier activity. “I do.” 

He tries to clear his head, but the light is low this time of evening, John is nearly chest to chest with him to fit under the umbrella, and the closeness is entirely distracting - Mycroft feels an unbecoming _urge_ as John’s arm brushes his chest.

John, somehow picking up on his thoughts, says, “Right, sorry.” He takes a step away. 

_No, you need not be._ Mycroft reaches out, and the edge of the umbrella bounces between them as he touches the damp fabric of John’s shoulder to still him. _This is my issue, John, not yours._

But John follows his hand, looks at it, and then looks at him with surprise in his gaze. 

Mycroft pulls his hand back, he meant to comfort, not insinuate. “Apologies, I did not mean...” Mycroft’s heart is thumping in a deep, panicked rhythm. What _did_ he mean, exactly? 

His whole body comes to life with heat as John eyes him. 

He is not certain how it happens, only that it is fast. John’s fingers are icy by the edge of his collar as they pull him down. John’s lips are wet and cold, John is not taking a moment to consider, he is kissing him eagerly, his tongue a flash of heat. And Mycroft lets him, kisses him just as urgently... 

As fast as it began, it is over. 

Mycroft is aware of the heavy rain falling around them. The painful indent of the umbrella to his wrist. The single drop of water rolling out of John’s wet hair and over his cheek. He gathers enough reason to state, “We cannot.” 

"Yeah, you said that." John is still looking at him as if he would in an instant. 

And _oh_ , how very flattering it is. 

In the back of his mind, Mycroft knows John must kiss everyone like this, but it is a distant thought. In truth, Mycroft wants to encourage him, to take him home and do this until they can no more. But what he says, as callously as he can manage, is, “Please excuse me, I need to get Violet.”

“I’ll...” John looks around. “Um, I’ll get a drink at Speedy’s or something.”

Mycroft leaves.

 

 

 

 

 


	64. (John)

 

 

John walks into Speedy’s. 

It’s warm inside. The owner nods at him, and John mumbles “Coffee.” He strips out of his wet jacket, then takes a seat with his back to the wall, so he can look outside. The window is steamed up and striped with condensation.

He receives a mug with milk and sugar. John looks at it. Then back at the window. 

Mycroft. Again. 

It’s not like he didn’t know what he was doing, he’s got no excuses whatsoever. John knew _just fine_. He’d looked at Mycroft and saw it written all over him - Mycroft was aching for it, too. 

No one kisses like that if they’re not. 

John waits, and yeah, he can see Mycroft walk out of Baker Street. John watches him balance Violet on his hip, the changing bag over his shoulder, and opening the umbrella over both of them. Mycroft turns and looks inside to see him. John feels a sharp tug in his stomach when he meets his gaze. They stare, for a moment. John wants to smile, but he doesn’t quite. 

Then Mycroft walks off. 

It’s not going to happen - John does get that. There’s nothing to _do_ , here. But god, does he ever want to. 

He’s not sure why. 

John drinks his coffee slowly. 

He feels like he should feel bad about it, at least a bit. He doesn’t, though. He would do it again in a minute. Fuck it all to hell - he would. 

John pays, goes outside and walks up the stairs, through the door, to see Sherlock picking up a mess. Violet must have done something to a feather pillow, because there are feathers everywhere. Sherlock’s haphazardly collecting them, but he’s doing a terrible job. 

Sherlock hasn’t noticed him yet, and John stills, looks at Sherlock, and tries to feel like the arsehole he is. _You kissed his brother, at least have the decency._ He says, “Use the hoover, it’ll be quicker.” 

Sherlock turns around sharply. “John.” And then, “You’re late.” Sherlock glances at his shoes, his jacket under his arm, his hair. “You walked in the rain because the tube station closed, then had a coffee at Speedy’s.” 

“Hm.” John has a look in the cupboard. In the bedroom, then on the stairs. 

He eventually finds the hoover stashed behind a bookcase for some unknown reason. 

 

-

 

There are no texts from Mycroft, but then John didn’t expect any. 

He lies awake in bed that night, next to a softly breathing Sherlock, and considers telling him what happened. Should he? Sherlock allowed Mara, but Mycroft is never, ever going to be the same. Sherlock’s bonded to Mycroft, the baby - it’s not even remotely similar. 

And if they’d try to do it behind Sherlock’s back, they’d never get away with it. Not for forever, anyway. Maybe once… But no. John stops himself from going there. 

Then thinks it again. Mycroft might go for it, once. _Get it out of their system._

No, that’s not going to do it, is it? 

John has no idea what sex with Mycroft would be like, but judging from kissing him, he’s already pretty sure he’d want to do it more than just once. 

John’s been with an omega or two, begging to be filled up, aching for it. He doubts Mycroft’s like that, but he can imagine it. Mycroft on his knees on the bed, swallowing heavily. His thighs, glittering wet. Saying, “John, please, if you could…”

John stops his thought right there. 

Maybe Mycroft would want John on his knees, and _he’d_ be the one calling the shots. That’s probably more likely. John would do that, too. He’d get off on it, sucking Mycroft’s cock, taking him deep, gagging on it.

John turns in the bed. He’s hard from thinking about it. He should have wanked earlier. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be anything like that at all. Just kissing, together. 

John holds a hand over his eyes. He needs to stop this. 

But it’s all he can think about. He has no idea what Mycroft would want, but it honestly doesn’t matter, because every single thing he can think of does it for him. 

Mycroft angry and towering over him, narrowing his eyes. John completely naked, Mycroft running a single finger over his chest, down to his cock, then wanking him hard, so he comes before he wants to. 

Mycroft smiling and carefully holding him. Letting him go down on him, the taste of him. John can imagine it well enough that his cock hardens even more. 

John looks to his side, at Sherlock. He can’t actually see him in this light. He’s breathing like he’s sleeping, but that isn’t always true. Sherlock’s generally a light sleeper. 

John can smell _him_ , too, a little wave of alpha. He suppresses the frustrated sigh. 

Right. That’s it. 

John gets out of bed as noiselessly as he can, but still the mattress dips. The covers shift and Sherlock’s breathing stills, but he doesn’t call out. John pads on bare feet around the bed and opens the door with a slow grip. It creaks. A lighter shadow falls into the room. John steps out and leaves the door half-opened - he’ll come back soon enough. 

He walks to the living room, aware that he’s hard. It’s been a while, he doesn’t wank nearly as often these days. He can’t really remember when he did it last. Maybe last week? In the shower? 

John lies down on the sofa. It’s a bit cold, the leather. 

He pushes his pyjama bottoms down, and his cock jumps up. 

Maybe Mycroft’s a sub, John thinks, as he slowly squeezes himself. 

Maybe it would be _Mycroft_ on his knees, opening his mouth, eager for it to be filled with John’s cock. 

His whole body breaks out in goose bumps. 

John imagines himself running his cock over Mycroft’s face and leaving a wet trail of pre-come on Mycroft’s cheeks. First one, then the other. Mycroft looking at him, hands tied behind his back, shaking, wanting it. Maybe begging. When Mycroft opens his mouth to suck him in, John will pull back so Mycroft can only desperately move towards him, mouth open, wanting it. 

John squeezes the base of his cock. 

Maybe he’d push Mycroft down on a bed somewhere, face-first, spread his legs, and just _push in_. He could, he’d be that wet for him. John thinks of the decadent squelching sound he’d make if he’d pump into him like that. He imagines Mycroft moving back into him, silently asking for more. 

John thinks of sucking Mycroft’s cock while putting his fingers inside of him. John wants to lick the come off, _god_ , Mycroft’s rounded, pregnant stomach. 

John wants to see him break down. He wants to see that same flash he saw in Mycroft’s eyes before - Mycroft _wants_ him. 

John grabs his balls and pulls them. Then trails a finger down to his arse and holds it there. It’s a comfortable ache when he presses it in. Just one, John doesn’t take more, but he’s always thought that he would if Sherlock would need that. Mycroft’s cock would be smaller, if he wants to push him down on the bed and have a go at him, John would let him try it. 

John imagines Mycroft’s hands holding his right there on the mattress, the push of a heavily pregnant belly against his back, Mycroft saying into his ear, “Is this what you want, John? Do you want to feel me inside of you?”

John spreads his knees a bit more, bends his back, and pushes his finger in. He tenses around the feeling and speeds his hand up on his cock. 

Or maybe Mycroft would be into watching him. John could do exactly this for him, while Mycroft sits on a deep leatherback chair and eyes him approvingly. John would give him a show. Oh, he’d do it, he’d make it _so good_ that Mycroft’s shifting on his chair uneasily, that Mycroft takes his cock out as well, and they both _look_ at each other. 

John eagerly strokes his cock, close… 

What if Mycroft gets up, then? Walks over, and John just licks Mycroft’s cock, slobbers all over it, gets the heat and heavy musk of it in his mouth…

John spasms. He thinks of Mycroft’s face - what he’d look like when he’s coming - and comes himself, spurting over his hand. 

John lies back. He closes his eyes. 

He tries not to think too much about the fact that he just got off over Mycroft. 

It’s pretty cold in the living room, actually. 

After a few minutes, John gets up to go to the bathroom and washes up a bit. 

John eyes the bedroom. He feels too awake now to go back, but he should. He walks back in carefully. Sherlock is still lying there, but as John sits back down on the mattress, Sherlock shifts. “John?” He sounds half-awake. 

“It’s fine. Go to sleep.” John lies back down stiffly, and Sherlock turns. He probably won’t remember it in the morning. 

John lies awake, staring at the ceiling. 

 

-

 

John goes to work, and checks his phone every hour or so, more out of habit than because he actually expects to get anything. 

Then, he does get a text from Mycroft. John glances at it, not sure whether he wants to know what it says, but he opens it anyway. “I believe we should discuss this. MH” 

He’s right about that. 

John texts, “I can get out of here over lunch, where are you now? JW” 

“The Diogenes Club, if that suits you? MH”

John’s not really meant to take long lunch breaks, but it’s a slow day, and he’s done caring anyhow. “I’ll come over. JW”

He tells the receptionist that ‘something came up’ and he’ll be back by two. 

The tube’s not too busy at noon on a weekday, and John makes good time. He rings the doorbell, and yet another bloke in a suit opens the door. John is escorted in without having to say a thing. He thought Mycroft might be in a sitting room, but no, John gets to go straight through to the downstairs lift. Apparently, this is a bunker-office sort of affair. 

John remembers bringing the digestives here just a few months ago. Life was easier then, wasn’t it? Although... did he want him then, too? John can’t remember. When exactly did he start thinking that getting it on with Mycroft sounded like a fab idea? 

Mycroft looks up when the door opens, and John walks in. “John.” He stands up. 

He’s really showing now. John finds his eyes drawn to it, because that’s what they should be thinking of first. The baby. As soon as you have kids it’s no longer about you, is it? 

“Would you like some lunch?” 

What? John’s surprised to hear Mycroft say it. He had been expecting to be told off, some threats about never speaking to each other again, something like that. So it’s a bit of a change in tracks. “...Sure?” 

Mycroft walks out with him, through the corridor. They’re not close, but John’s aware that there isn’t that much space between them. Into the lift together, which suddenly feels a lot smaller than it did before. Mycroft eyes him, calmly. 

They don’t talk, but it feels easier than John thought. They’re not going to fuck, despite how much he might want to right now, and he knows that. They both know it, and there’s something in having this acknowledged between them that feels _good_. John can see the flicker of fondness in Mycroft’s eyes. 

John smiles a bit in return. They get out on the second floor, and Mycroft leads the way into an ornate room with a table set for two in the middle. It’s actually lunch. 

John sits down in the seat opposite Mycroft’s. Mycroft says, “I hope it will be to your taste,” and lifts the cover to his own plate. It’s a salad with some beans and strips of chicken. Much healthier than John would imagine for him, but then he’s pregnant. 

John’s own plate has steak, potatoes, and some veggies on the side. “Yeah... it’s great, actually. Thanks.” John tries the steak. It tastes amazing. 

They eat. 

After a while, John offers, “Violet threw a tantrum about wearing her jacket, Sherlock texted me.”

Mycroft sighs and says, “She did this morning when getting dressed as well. She seems to be quite averse to clothing as a concept these days.” 

They talk on about Violet. They both know why they’re here, only, John doesn’t want to get to it either. 

Mycroft finishes his salad, dabs his mouth with a napkin, has a drink of water, and sits back. 

John takes his time finishing the steak. It’s really gorgeous, the best meal John’s had in months, and Mycroft doesn’t seem to mind waiting. Actually, Mycroft is taking him in while he eats, John can tell. He’s almost annoyed when he’s done, because there’s nothing left now to say, except what they have to. 

John puts his knife down, takes his drink, and admits, “Wish we didn’t have to talk about it.”

Mycroft smiles, briefly. “Yes, that would be easier, wouldn’t it?” 

“Avoidance would work great.” John grins. But, all right. They have to. It’s just that he doesn’t want to rip this apart. Any of it - John hasn’t felt this in ages. The flirting, but mainly the thing where they just look at each other and they don’t have to say a word. It’s right there, flowing between them. John looks at Mycroft, and all he wants to do is to get up, get over there, and snog him senseless. Maybe crawl over him and... 

“We need to ensure that this does not happen again.” Mycroft sounds grim. 

Done with the fantasising, back to the real world. “Right.”

“John, we can be… _friendly_.” Mycroft says, and John is starting to get what this eating together thing was about. “We simply cannot cross that line. Ever again.” Mycroft looks at him seriously. “You must understand that.”

“I do.” John knows he’s right, of course he does. Mycroft seems decided on this. John is too, actually, but he says, knowing he’s pushing it, “I wish, though.”

Mycroft sighs. “I believe that when it comes to those we care for, sacrifices will always need to be made.” 

He’s right. For Sherlock. For Violet. For the baby. They can’t do this now. Or ever, really, but now sounds more manageable. John gets up. 

Mycroft does as well, then nods at him as he gets out. 

John walks away feeling pretty fucking awful, but Mycroft’s right - _they can’t._

John looks back for a last glance as the door closes, and he can see Mycroft sit back down, a hand covering his face. 

 

-

 

John goes back to work, and then comes home early to a wild hug from Violet. 

He gets on the floor with her and Sherlock, and they build endless towers together. Sherlock’s are so structurally sound that Violet has trouble pushing them over, especially when John helps with the foundations. 

They get into it. Sherlock is laughing, a deep, rare sound, and Violet screeching in violent fun, when there’s a movement behind them. 

John turns around, the smile still on his face, to see Mycroft standing in the doorway and looking at them. 

It stills John’s breath, seeing him there. But Sherlock gets up to bond, Violet runs to Mycroft for a hello, so John’s reaction is lost in the shuffle. 

It doesn’t matter.

 

 

 

 

 


	65. (Sherlock)

 

 

Something is still wrong with John. Sherlock can tell. 

John doesn’t do anything particularly different, but he is absent. He doesn’t seem to be thinking so much as he drifts off and stares into space. 

John comes home one night, sighs, and says, “I’m thinking of just resigning at work. Does that work for you?”

Sherlock didn’t know that he had a say in it at all, and he’s instantly pleased that he does. “Yes, I don’t mind.” They’ll get the money somehow. He frowns. “You are that annoyed with work.” 

“No, I’m just…” John sighs. “ _Done._ ” 

Sherlock tries to sound understanding. “You can resign right now. Never go back.” A call to Mycroft and John will be let go with a nice severance package. 

But John shrugs. “No, I’m going to serve my notice. But if I resign tomorrow, it’s two months.” 

And he seems so sure about it that Sherlock agrees completely. “Yes, do it.” 

John sends a text the next day, “I resigned. JW” Sherlock hopes that that’s what it was, then, that John was agonising about giving up on his work. 

But it doesn’t make a difference. 

Sherlock checks John’s phone again, and all of his texts have been deleted, except the last few. A couple from Sherlock himself, and one from Mycroft about when to pick Violet up, nothing more. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but Sherlock feels unsure. Is John having an affair? Sherlock would think this is about something like that, but then John is home every single night. Sherlock checks John’s emails as well, but there’s nothing that stands out. 

Sherlock remembers John’s reaction to suggesting that he’d date again, so he’s hesitant to say anything about it. 

Eventually, Sherlock offers, when Violet is gone for the evening and they’re sitting together on the sofa watching TV, “Would you like to have sex?”

John glances at him, then laughs. “Um, thanks? But no, I’m fine.” 

John’s still grinning, so Sherlock thinks it was a success anyway, although not the way he thought it would be. John takes his hand and comfortably tangles their fingers. 

It’s nice. 

 

-

 

Sherlock goes to the morgue the next day, buys two cups of tea and two packets of crisps, and finds Molly. She smiles when she sees him come in. “Oh, I had a measles case two days ago, but he’s already gone.” 

“And you didn’t call me!” Sherlock is acting offended, but he’s not, not truly. 

Molly rolls her eyes. “Next gruesome death, I’ll let you know.” Then she hesitates. “I didn’t know if you were too busy?”

“For the morgue? _Never._ ” Sherlock grins at her, and she smiles back happily. She’s always so easy to please. 

He hangs around for a while, looking at slides and idly helping Molly, until she says, “Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

Sherlock plays with a scalpel - Molly is dissecting a brain - and says, “John is depressed.” 

She seems surprised. “You think so?”

Sherlock eyes her. “Which antidepressant could I mash into his food?” 

“Sherlock!” Molly grins, then cuts out the occipital lobe and hands it to him to slice up. 

Next is Lestrade. Sherlock waits by Lestrade’s favourite coffee truck, and as he sees him, says, “Do you know what’s wrong with John?” 

“Hello to you, too.” Lestrade frowns. “There’s something wrong with John?” 

Mrs. Hudson pats his hand and says, “It’s a big change, suddenly realising you’re about to be a dad.” 

Sherlock considers that, but then he observes John with Violet, and really, John’s already a parent, there’s not much that will change. Plus, John doesn’t seem particularly nervous about it.

The last person to ask is the most obvious, but also the most annoying, because Mycroft will feel _so_ superior if he’s figured something out about John that Sherlock hasn’t. Sherlock gets Mycroft alone to bond, and then offers, “John’s not happy.”

“Hm?” Mycroft asks, apparently only barely interested. 

Sherlock focuses on that. “You don’t care?” 

Mycroft starts. “Of course I do!” 

Hah. Sherlock eyes him. _Gave it away there, brother mine._ “You know what it is?” 

Mycroft sighs. “I believe he is bored with his work?” 

“I know that, he quit.” 

“He is probably apprehensive about giving up on a career that has defined him for most of his life, especially in order to raise a child. I imagine that it is a difficult change in self-perception for someone like him.” 

It sounds as if Mycroft has thought about this. Sherlock looks at him - Mycroft must have noticed as well, then. “Nothing else?”

Mycroft says, a little annoyed, “If you wish to know how he feels, you might ask him.” 

He’s right, Sherlock knows. They’re all right about that. 

 

-

 

There aren’t any interesting cases, but Sherlock takes one anyway. He takes John with him, and it’s immediately obvious it was the right thing to do. John takes a suspect out by punching him in the face and he’s still grinning about it half an hour later. 

It’s early in the evening when they get back home - no time lost chasing anyone when they’re out cold on the ground - and John is getting the take-away menus ready. 

And then, strangely, a bottle of whisky. 

Sherlock looks at John’s back in the kitchen, sees him turn around, and determines that this is the best possible moment to ask him, now he’s this pleased with himself. “John, are you depressed?”

John stills briefly. “No.” Then says, “You want Chinese or Indian? I could go for a good curry myself.”

“Fine.” Sherlock says, thwarted. He turns around, lies down on the sofa, and looks away. He can hear John order a curry, basmati rice, and naan at their second-favourite place. Then pour himself a drink. 

John comes back and sits down, Sherlock can hear the creak of the chair. The slight clink of the glass against the table. John’s hesitant breath, readying to speak, and then deciding against it. 

Sherlock turns around fast, and catches John taking a big gulp of his drink. Sherlock _knows_ it is something, he can tell. “Something’s wrong.” 

John swallows his drink, sits back in his chair, and smiles a little, but it’s tense. 

“You’ve been distant all week, and you smile at a much decreased intensity.” 

John shifts. “It’s nothing.”

Sherlock can feel it, though, and John’s angry set of jaw betrays him. “Don’t lie to me, John, you’re no good at it.” 

“Not nearly as good as you are, you mean?” It comes out fast. 

Sherlock considers the meaning behind John’s words. Is this still about him being dead? Is that why John went to that pub a while back, is he still angry about that? 

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but John says, “Sorry.” 

“No, tell me.” _Please John, say what you want to say, because I can’t guess it._

“Fine, you hated me going away with Mara. Then when it’s done, I stay home, and you don’t give a shit, do you?” 

Sherlock blinks. “I do care…”

“No, you wanted me to get someone else straight away. And I don’t…” John sighs. “Fuck.” 

There’s nothing else Sherlock can do to make John happy. That is what John wants, he knows it is. “You can have anyone you want, John.” Sherlock says it carefully.

“Hn.” John laughs, oddly bitter. 

Sherlock frowns. What? 

John runs his hand over his face and then eyes him. “You sure you want to know?” 

Sherlock isn’t, anymore. “Yes.” 

“I…” John hesitates. “Look, I didn’t do it to wind you up, or hurt you, but…” He pauses. 

Sherlock, unsure what he wants, nods. 

“Mycroft. We... I kissed him. A while back.” 

Sherlock mind goes strangely blank for a fraction of a second. All Sherlock can think is, _Mycroft would have to bend down._

John looks at him closely. 

Sherlock can feel it as if it’s pushing him hard to the side, as if he wouldn’t be sitting up in the sofa, he would slowly tilt towards the floor. “You had sex?” He sounds far away. 

“No. Just kissing.” John says it firmly. “Nothing more.” 

Sherlock believes him. It seems plausible. John wants everyone, he kisses everyone, John is like that. But Mycroft, it’s not, it can’t… “Mycroft.” 

John seems ashamed, for a moment. “Look, it just happened. It’s been…” John sighs and rubs his hand over his face. “Weird.” 

Sherlock slowly lies down. He looks at his own feet. 

John’s breath stills, but he doesn’t say anything more. 

Sherlock wants to push this into the red box he keeps in his mind of ‘people who touch John and I hate with a burning rage,’ but it doesn’t go there. Mycroft is everywhere in his mind. Not like John, not like a warm current connecting thoughts and memories. Mycroft is in the foundations. Sherlock has tried to shake him out of it for years but he never succeeded, and the last few years it was fine, that worked, but now…

John says some more things, Sherlock hears, but doesn’t register it. 

The doorbell rings. 

The light shifts through the window and fades out. But Sherlock is still lying on the sofa, still pressing the thoughts away. 

Eventually, Sherlock looks back at John’s empty chair. The kitchen smells like Indian food, but John isn’t there eating it. It’s gone dark, too. But that doesn’t matter. Sherlock knows what it is, why John did that. 

He figured it out. 

Sherlock gets up, stiffly. He checks the bedroom – no. He goes upstairs. 

John is on his old bed. He hasn’t slept there in months. He’s pretending to be doing something on his laptop, but he immediately looks up, tense. Sherlock says, “You were affected by the hormones.” 

“Um.” John shifts. 

Sherlock has seen the way John’s eyes shine around Mycroft, and the way John angles his body towards him whenever they’re talking. The way John flushes, sometimes. Sherlock remembers John’s speechless reaction when Mycroft was in almost-heat.

It makes perfect sense. 

Sherlock is sure of it now, and it’s stupid that he felt hurt at all, because there have been times where he bonded to Mycroft and had an erection, too. Mycroft does as well, they both know it. They don’t mention it, because it has no consequence. “You are.”

“Even if I am, it’s not…” John winces. “Look, I _know_ he’s your brother, it wasn’t supposed to happen, I get that.” 

Sherlock pushes it away. “It’s fine.” 

“Fine?” John raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, no, me kissing Mycroft is not…” He pauses. 

Sherlock nods. “I understand, John.” 

“Wait, _seriously_?” John seems annoyed now, much more so than he was before. “You think it’s fine, just like that?” 

No, of course not. Sherlock doesn’t like the thought of John kissing Mycroft, but sexual response is logical. Sherlock has felt it often enough himself. John’s a beta, so he’s much less able to sense the bonding hormones, but he is around them constantly. Plus, it is John’s child, of course he would feel some of it, too. And John’s much more inclined to sex, so only a little bit of it would be enough for him. “It’s a biological reaction, John. The pregnancy hormones, it’s your child, it’s affecting you.”

John squints at him, angry, somehow. “That’s it?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “What else?” 

“I was expecting…” John seems more on edge now than before. “For you to care, honestly? Freak out. You know...” John gets up and slams his laptop down on the bed. “Act like a fucking human being?!” 

“It makes sense why you wanted to, John.” Sherlock did right in suppressing his jealousy, he thinks. This is scientifically explainable, and it’s not John’s fault at all. 

John eyes him. “And what if I want to do it again? What if I tell you I want to fuck him, does that _make sense_ to you? Is that _all fine_?” 

“Yes, it’s the hormones.” Sherlock swallows. “There is no shame in it, John.” 

John turns away. “Yeah, thank god I’ve got such an understanding _boyfriend_ then, right?” 

He walks out. 

Sherlock stays there, not sure why he made John so angry. And a little pleased by John saying ‘boyfriend’, because he hardly ever does. 

Still, it’s not good, Sherlock thinks. 

This isn’t good at all.

 

 

 

 

 


	66. (Mycroft)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, just as a little aside - I am [participating in the Fandom Trumps Hate auction](https://fandomtrumpshateofferings.tumblr.com/search/indybaggins). I am offering a PWP /short story, so if you have something in mind you would love to see me write, now is the time! Indy x

 

 

That evening, Mycroft is lying in bed when he feels a shift inside of him, so small he thinks he imagined it. Until it happens again. 

_The baby is moving._

Mycroft holds his hand on his stomach and thinks of the child there, briefly fascinated by the sensation. 

And then of John, because the two are ever-connected, and how can he not. 

Mycroft will need to get along with John for this child’s sake, and he fully plans to do so. His reaction was too harsh, last time. He thought that they needed distance, while that only served to magnify the longing. Now, they will name it and allow it to exist, but never be consumed again. 

Mycroft feels sadness, yes, but mainly he feels that he handled it correctly. This kiss did not leave him with the deep shame the first one did, or the anger of being seduced by such an urge. This one felt like a confirmation. But it was goodbye. 

They both knew it was, and they will simply live with it. 

 

-

 

The next morning there is a small scandal involving the royal family, and Mycroft‘s presence is requested. 

This time, the children are absent, but the Duchess recognises him on sight. “Mister Holmes, a pleasure to see you again.” 

Mycroft tilts his head. “Your Grace.”

They discuss the security leak briefly. As she shakes his hand to say goodbye, she adds quietly, “And on a personal note...” She glances at his stomach and smiles sincerely. “Congratulations.”

Mycroft answers courteously, “Thank you.” He prefers to never mention his pregnancy in a work context, but not everyone gets the blessing of a royal. 

“I find it encouraging to see an omega father in a position such as yours. And I wanted to say that you have my full support.” She eyes him, suddenly deeply serious. “You may remember that, if it is ever needed.” 

Mycroft nods. Her power is not equal to his, but she could be a convenient ally. She goes right back to the photogenic smile. “Good day, Mr. Holmes.” 

Mycroft passes another advisor on the way out, and considers that while carrying children has been an inconvenience in many aspects, it has given him allies as well. 

One can do worse than to please the future Queen of Britain. 

Mycroft thinks of Prince George, her son and an omega boy who is destined to lead some day. If Mycroft is still alive by then, he will stand behind him, aiding him. There are some things that can be accomplished only from positions such as his. 

The Duchess is clever enough to see that. 

 

-

 

In the afternoon, Mycroft is in his office in the City, all clean lines and gleaming windows, handling the last of the press on the incident. He never enjoys working here. There is something about the skyscraper built out of glass that makes him feel exposed, and he refuses to handle anything too delicate here. Rain is hitting the windows, uncomfortably reminding him of John. 

Mycroft saw in the security footage from last night that John went out drinking again. Mycroft chose not to intervene this time, assuming it would not be helpful. But he doesn’t presume it indicates some new development until Sherlock walks into his office with a swish of coat. 

Mycroft’s stomach tenses. 

It doesn’t matter that Sherlock found out where he is, it matters that Sherlock thought that this conversation couldn’t wait a few hours. So it is with some trepidation that Mycroft says, “Yes?” 

Sherlock pulls out a chair, and sits down across from him. That alone serves to underline the severity. Because an angry Sherlock, an unsettled one, Mycroft can deal with. This version of him is more of an unknown. 

“You kissed him.” 

Until this very moment, Mycroft had not realised how terrible it would be to look Sherlock in the eye and to have to confess to what he has done. He took what is Sherlock’s, he did this to him. It is unforgivable. 

Has Sherlock come here not to rage at him, but to quietly cut him out of his life? To say that he will not see him again, except when unavoidable for the child? 

Would Mycroft blame him if that were so? 

He speaks, feeling as if there is a lead weight on his chest. “Yes. I did.” 

Sherlock allows a silence to fall. 

Mycroft swallows, aware that he is the one on trial here. That his words will lie between them for years to come, if not a lifetime. His sins. “It should never have happened.” _Obviously._ “I apologise, Sherlock.” His words feel entirely useless. 

Sherlock seems oddly impassive. Pensive, even. “It’s the hormones.”

Mycroft feels taken aback. He had not considered it in that manner. His own attraction to John long predates this pregnancy, but yes, it does probably explain why John would even be interested in him at all. The thought feels curiously painful. 

He considers Sherlock. Is this Sherlock giving him a reprieve? Could he be this lucky? Mycroft cautiously agrees, “Pregnancy hormones are strong, yes.”

Sherlock remains still. 

Over the years, Mycroft has seen Sherlock full of anger and rage, but this is unsettling. Mycroft says, “I assumed that you would have a rather more volatile reaction.” 

Sherlock looks up, and he seems plainly sad. 

Mycroft is shocked to see it. _Oh, Sherlock..._

He tries to smile comfortingly. “I would never wish to…” What, exactly, is it that has hurt Sherlock here? “...disturb your relationship. It was, as you said, nothing more than a reaction to my hormonal state.” He is lying, but it is a necessary lie. One that Sherlock seems desperate to hear. 

Sherlock looks at the desk. 

Mycroft adds, “I shall be more distant in the future.” Mycroft is amazed that Sherlock would show this much emotion in front of him. “You have nothing to fear.” 

Sherlock says, dimly, “Doesn’t matter. It’ll be someone else next.” 

Sherlock sounds so resigned that Mycroft feels a well of pity for him. John does seem to always be looking for more. And, embarrassingly, Mycroft has thought it as well, that he himself would only be a small addition to John’s long list of conquests. 

Mycroft says, seeing the hurt in Sherlock’s eyes, “I do believe that John loves you deeply.” 

Sherlock nods. He gets up, slowly, and Mycroft feels his misery like a punch. He wishes there was something, anything he could do… Right before Sherlock reaches the door, Mycroft says, “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock looks back. 

“The baby moved last night.”

For a moment Mycroft thinks that he was completely wrong in saying it, in even _thinking_ that Sherlock would want to be reminded of the child that is also John’s. That he made a crucial mistake in sharing it. 

But Sherlock smiles. Faintly, but it is there. After a moment he says, “See you tonight.” 

The words mean much more than that, and Mycroft understands them for what they are. It means that he is welcome in Sherlock’s home, still. That Sherlock has, miraculously, chosen to forgive him this trespass. 

Sherlock leaves, and Mycroft sinks back in his chair, feeling eternally guilty. 

 

-

 

Mycroft thinks on it throughout the day. Sherlock’s face. His eyes. The sad thrum of his voice. It stings. 

John doesn’t text, and Mycroft does not know how to interpret that. Regret that he told Sherlock? That they ever did this? Or does he simply have a hang-over? 

Mycroft does know that he would do better to face this now to get it clear between them, but then what can he say that he has not said before? 

With a mixed conscience, Mycroft leaves work early and has the driver take him to John’s clinic. 

Mycroft waits across the entrance and watches the large glass doors. It’s early evening, and there are a scattering of people entering and exiting the clinic. 

Mycroft, as much as he wonders at his own motives, does want to be here. He even feels a mild anticipation in waiting for John, no matter how uncomfortable the conversation might be. Mycroft examines that sense and wonders how long he has felt this sentimental. How long has he desired John’s company over anyone else’s? Closest would be Sherlock, of course, but interactions with him tend to be more varied in intensity, and half the time they annoy one another. John has been the calm in his day, the moment of warmth, for far too long. 

John walks out exactly on time, wearing his jacket. As he sees him, he smiles, first. And then as it sinks in, his expression shifts somewhat. When John reaches him, he says, “I know, I’m sorry, he just…” John sighs. “He pressed me, and I told him, and then… well, I’m still hung-over.” 

Mycroft had assumed as much. “Would you like a coffee?”

“Yeah.” John leads the way to the coffee shop across the road. 

They both order. Mycroft asks for tea, since his stomach does not react well to anything else these days. 

When they sit down, John asks, “Was he angry? Because with me...” He shrugs. “Suppose I got off easy.” 

But there is something unspoken underneath it. Is John actually disappointed? Mycroft considers what to say. “I believe he was rather upset, yes.” 

“Yeah?” John seems surprised. “He yell at you?”

“No.” Mycroft looks at John. Is there anything left but being truthful? “He believes that you will move on to someone else soon.” _And so do I._ Mycroft tries to dampen any accusation in his voice. He has nothing over John, and he certainly should not expect fidelity. 

“Because he tells me to!” John nearly shouts. Then leans forward on the table, and lowers his voice, “He keeps on asking me when I’m going to date next. So yeah, it’s hard not to take that as him wanting me to move on.”

Mycroft offers, “He wishes you to be happy.” 

“Yeah well, maybe I don’t…” John breathes. “Maybe I’m done sleeping with just anyone.” 

Mycroft hesitates. “I believe ‘just anyone’ is the agreement you have.”

John looks at him. “What if that’s not what I want?” 

It’s a question that could be answered in many ways. But Mycroft should take himself out of this equation, he does not belong in it, and he refuses to cause Sherlock any more pain than he already did. “Then you need to discuss that with Sherlock.” 

John eyes him. “What do you think?” 

_As if he has any say in this._ “I…” Mycroft finds it hard to express. “My wishes are not at all relevant here.” He feels curiously vulnerable saying as much. Admitting that he even has wishes. 

John smiles, a little. He doesn’t push for an answer, and Mycroft is grateful for it, because he does not know what he would have said. 

After a moment, John asks, “You feeling all right? The baby?” 

Mycroft already told Sherlock, so he might as well. “I have felt some movement.” 

“Really?” John smiles, widely, and looks down at his stomach somewhere near the table. “Oh, that’s great.” 

Mycroft nods in thanks, and considers that Sherlock is right, and that all of this is hormonal for John. John is simply easily aroused and this does it for him now. 

It seems very likely. 

 

-

 

Mycroft gives John a ride back to Baker Street, so they are in the highly uncomfortable position of walking in together. Sherlock is in the bathroom, and they can hear Violet’s voice and splashing. 

John cautiously disappears to his former bedroom, and Mycroft goes to the bathroom. 

Sherlock is on his knees, sitting by the bathtub. Violet is in it, playing with foam. There are some traces of mud in her hair. 

Mycroft steps in, says hello to Violet, and then, extremely cautiously, puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock.” 

Sherlock doesn’t shrug the hand away. 

So he will be forgiven, Mycroft thinks. He watches Sherlock bathe Violet with obvious care. Then Sherlock lifts a towel-wrapped Violet up out of the water, and hands her to him. Violet puts her thin arms around his neck and holds on tight, happily trusting, while Sherlock finds her a clean outfit. 

At least between them, it will be all right.

 

 

 

 

 


	67. (John)

 

 

John feels like shit. 

It’s no longer a mid-life crisis, it’s graduated to… just shit. 

John wants Mycroft. He does. He won’t _do_ anything about it, he is going to have a kid with him, and Mycroft - wisely, John can see that - doesn’t want to. But after all of that, Sherlock still doesn’t care, apparently. 

John wonders why he ever thought that he would. 

It’s not like Sherlock ever did anything to… Okay, yeah. He did, but not... Well, not really, it’s never… John sighs. _Goddammit._ It’s not about sex. It’s not, but it _is_ about everything around it. Never kissing, or hugging, John’s hardly allowed to touch him. It does feel like they’re together, but really, where’s the difference between ‘my mate Sherlock’ and ‘my boyfriend Sherlock’? 

Because John _feels_ the difference, but he’s not sure that there is any. 

Has this all just been him being in love with Sherlock, and Sherlock giving back what he can, but not quite… that? 

John is starting to think it has. 

Like he’s been stupid to believe that it’s even love. Oh, it’s friendship, partnership, sure. But should he just, what - leave? The thought alone is horrible. John doesn’t want to leave Baker Street. Their bed together, the stupid little rituals of film nights and cases and the violin. It’s home. He loves it here, and he’s never giving that up again. 

So Sherlock is totally right - the solution is that John falls in love with someone else, too. Sherlock saw that years ago, but John, as usual, didn’t see it until now. He always thought he missed sex, but that’s not all, is it? If that was it, Mara would have been enough. But no, John wants more. 

And it’s ridiculous that what Sherlock gives somehow isn’t enough, because he _does_ \- Sherlock cares and worries and helps - he does try. But it’s not the same. John wants sex, but also the laughing after. The hugs and the lazy kissing. The sensual and the familiar. And that’s not going to happen with Sherlock. 

And as long as he stays with Sherlock, it’s not going to happen with anyone else, either. Because who would live with sharing him like that? 

Except, maybe… 

Mycroft. 

John sighs. He’s been an idiot for kissing him. Like Mycroft said, it’s too much of a risk. It is, John gets that. For the baby, for Violet. They can’t mess this up by doing that. 

So the solution is simple enough. Either he goes back to dating and gets some there, or stops dating and learns to be happy with Sherlock alone. Either way, he should commit to it, and deal. He should… John doesn’t know. He doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s best anymore. 

Not drinking, that’s for sure. He still has a pounding headache. 

John stays in his old bedroom long enough for Mycroft to have left, then goes down to see a closed door. Sherlock’s in his room. John looks at it. And then knocks and walks in. 

Sherlock’s lying on the bed. He glances at him, but doesn’t move, or throw him out. That’s a lot already, John figures. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but there’s something in his body language that seems to allow him here. So John sits on the bed, takes his shoes off, and lies down next to him. Then he says to the ceiling, “I feel like shit.”

Sherlock shifts a little. 

He’s listening, John thinks, so he goes on, “…and I don’t know what to do.” 

Sherlock turns on his side and looks at him. 

John turns, too. It feels a bit secretive, the both of them on the bed like this. Like they’re about to whisper. “So you can officially call me an idiot.” John laughs, a little, and he can see a smile appear on Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock says, slowly, “You’re not an idiot, John.”

“Well, I feel like one.” John means it. 

Sherlock trails a finger over his hand, and the touch alone is so nice, John can feel himself move into it. 

“Why do we keep on fucking this up?” 

John was asking it more to himself than that he was expecting an answer, but Sherlock says, “Relationships have never been either of our specialty.” 

“I guess you’re right.” John thinks it through - inappropriate affair in the army, some women back at home, falling for Sherlock but marrying Mary, then this. “God, you are.” 

Sherlock seems pleased. “I always am.” 

John starts to say, “Well, that’s nothing new....” When Sherlock’s phone buzzes. 

He takes it out, checks, and says, “Case.” 

John gets up. 

_Perfect._

 

-

 

John doesn’t have time to think about Mycroft or any of it when he’s running after a three-time killer through the back gardens of a Notting Hill gated community. He’s out of breath - out of shape, actually, he should really get back to working out more - running with the hard pressure of his gun in his pocket. Sherlock is ten paces ahead of him. 

John feels _alive_ , like this. 

Sherlock tackles the guy, and they both go down. John draws his gun, pushes himself those last steps, and yells, “Move... and I... kill you.” It’s muffled a bit by him gasping for breath, but Sherlock still looks at him with pure adoration, and the killer with panic. John grins and cocks the gun. 

Perfect, indeed. 

Sherlock calls Greg, and John keeps his gun trained on the guy for a full twenty minutes, feeling nothing short of _glee_. That’s how they do it. Catch the fucking bastards. 

Dimmock comes by to collect him. They all agree on giving the statements tomorrow, see them off, and then Sherlock and John walk back, taking the same shortcut through the gardens.

John didn’t exactly stop to smell the flowers before, so he only now notices the half-moon over London, the trees around, and the crunch of gravel under their feet. It’s kind of nice, really. Or maybe that’s the adrenalin still pumping through his body. John’s suddenly starving, too, he could really go for something greasy. Sherlock will know a place. 

And that’s when Sherlock stumbles. 

He gets his foot stuck under a tree root or something like that, John doesn’t see, only that he suddenly makes an odd lurch to the side. John is too late to catch him, so Sherlock goes down face-first onto the grass. 

John laughs, because it looks funny and mainly because of Sherlock’s insulted, “ _John!_ ”

So John steps over him to pull him up. Only Sherlock gives him a purposeful pull, and John falls on top of him instead, laughing breathlessly. 

Sherlock under him is all coat and huffing laughs, and John looks at him and he can’t do anything else - he kisses him. 

It’s just a peck, and Sherlock’s still laughing though it.

Sherlock pulls him in, and then they’re sort of mock-wrestling, rolling over each other while gasping breaths and giggling. 

John doesn’t want to mess this up, but dammit, there’s dirt on his knees and wet grass everywhere and it’s cold, and he leans down and kisses Sherlock a bit more. Sherlock lets him. 

They shift, and John pushes his hips forward, because yeah, it’s nice, the friction. 

Sherlock says, “You’re aroused?” 

John laughs. “Yeah, this is doing it for me, quickie in someone’s garden, what do you think?” He’s only half-kidding. 

Sherlock takes it seriously. “Yes.” 

“Really?” John asks, but he’s touching his trousers already. He rolls to his side, and it’s just silly enough that he can’t stop laughing a bit. Sherlock doesn’t either, and they’re still looking at each other when John gets his cock out. He, daringly, puts a leg over Sherlock’s side, and Sherlock shifts a bit closer. 

Then touches him. Sherlock’s hand is cold. 

John bends his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder, and breathes into his coat. The ground is hard and wet and it’s dirty. Sherlock’s hand isn’t nearly slow enough and sort of hurts, actually, he’s not _that_ into it yet. But still John looks up and says into Sherlock’s ear, “Amazing.” 

And Sherlock smiles, a bright smile, and continues to jerk him off. 

It’s uncomfortable, and John’s kind of afraid that he can’t come like his. But then it builds anyway, and he breathes into Sherlock’s ear and moves his hips against Sherlock’s side, _yeah, like that, like that…_ John squints his eyes shut, and tries not to think of anything. Because this is it, this is the dream, right? He’s with Sherlock, they just chased a criminal, and now they’re mucking about in a freezing garden. 

John pushes himself into it, and comes with a small twitch, immediately more glad that it’s done than anything else. 

Sherlock has a paper napkin, nicked from somewhere. He cleans his hand, hands it to John, and jumps up. 

John’s cold. Stiff from lying on the ground. He gets up by way of his knees, then pulls his trousers up. And wipes his hands. He feels like there’s probably dirt on his arse, too. 

Sherlock says, “Outdoor sex is less common than general polls tend to show.” 

John takes a deep breath, then grins. “Yeah? Tell me how you know that.” 

 

-

 

By the time they’re home, John’s side is aching. His muscles feel stiff from the chase, and he feels cold and grimy. But he lets Sherlock have the first shower as a thank you, even though he always takes twice as long as John does. 

John looks at his phone while he waits and sees, “Have you had a chance to talk to Sherlock? MH” 

John replies, “A bit. Don’t know if we’ll ever really get anywhere, but it feels better anyway. JW” It’s kind of frank, but John doesn’t mind saying it. He adds, “I’m getting too old for chasing suspects, I’m knackered. When are drones going to take over? JW” 

“Police work in general? In a few years, although I doubt that they will ever be more than just an addition to the force. MH” 

A few seconds later there is another message, “And I am glad you spoke. I do not wish to be the cause of any further unease between you. MH” 

John looks at it for a while. “We’re okay, I think. And none of it was your fault. JW” John sends it, and then wonders about saying that, but it’s true. It wasn’t, was it? There’s nothing Mycroft actually caused here, it’s just John and Sherlock where it’s all wrong. 

And Mycroft’s never _between_ them, not really. He’s just there in the background. Or that’s what it feels like, anyway. Even when John’s somewhere with Mycroft alone, it still feels like Mycroft’s part of it all, too. Of their family, or something like that. Who they are. 

When John’s finally under the shower, it feels divine. He leaves his dirty clothes on the floor and heads to the bedroom in just a towel. Sherlock doesn’t seem to care too much that he gets into bed like that for once. 

John makes sure not to lie too close to Sherlock, though. Then offers, “Great case.”

Sherlock smiles a bit - John can hear it. “Good.”

John thinks Sherlock’s happy with that, at least. 

Maybe he should be too, then.

 

 

 

 

 


	68. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock couldn’t have planned that better if he had tried. 

The case was exactly what John would want: a thrilling chase, an easy suspect, and not a lot of thought. And then in the garden… Sherlock didn’t orchestrate that particular bit exactly, but seeing John training his gun on the suspect brought it to mind. _Sex._

So yes, Sherlock did pretend to trip. He pulled John down, knowing he’d find it funny. 

John reacted exactly the way Sherlock anticipated, and it carried a sense of victory to feel him get aroused. John already was from handling the gun, too - it was easy. 

Sherlock didn’t mind the slick stickiness all over his fingers, or the soil in his hair. The scraped knees. The inevitable dry-cleaning bill. Not if it can make John smile for an hour or two. 

And that’s what love is, Sherlock thinks. 

He can try to define it, predict what he should do and how, but in the end, love is sacrifice. 

Mycroft always claimed it was. And Sherlock knows it to be true now. He jumped off a roof for John, he spent years doing _everything_ for John. It makes sense that he should fail here, right here, when it’s the ‘happily every after’ bit. When Sherlock has to be here not in the big things, but in the minutiae of everyday routine. He has to try harder to keep this. 

John doesn’t want to leave this life they have together. Sherlock can see that. 

It’s everything else that drags, and Sherlock doesn’t know how to fix that. Not really, except that they are always moving towards better things. John wanted kids, and they’ll soon have two. John wanted sex, and he can go out to get it - only that’s somehow flawed? 

John _kissed_ Mycroft.

Sherlock doesn’t feel anger about that, exactly. It’s something darker than that, and not nearly as simple. Because if there was _anyone_ who would understand what it is like - to see John, wonderful John, and to love him with everything inside, but feel nothing but revulsion as soon as their lips touch, with the spit and smooth tongues and awkward angling of necks... Sherlock had thought it would be Mycroft. 

He does know that Mycroft has had sex occasionally. But out of anyone, Mycroft should be able to see how whatever desire their bodies have, it’s nothing compared to the importance of the mind. 

Only John kissed Mycroft, and Mycroft must have liked it somewhat, since he kissed him back - if he did not, he would certainly have mentioned it. 

So it’s something that they can have together that Sherlock can’t. 

Like the baby is theirs, and not his. 

Sherlock didn’t think it would matter. He’s bonded to Mycroft, so he has the biological connection. There are the genetics, too, it’ll be his nephew. Sherlock thought that was more than enough. 

But now, it’s another thing that he doesn’t share with the two of them. 

Sherlock never really wanted to be an alpha. If he had the choice, he would have preferred beta. But now… To have a child, Sherlock is not certain he would want that in his body. The idea is foreign, but he can see the advantage. He can feel the sharp thread of jealousy that Mycroft currently has something that is John’s growing deep inside of him. 

Mycroft told him, when they first considered this, it is the first reason he gave for saying no - that then there would be a child of the two of them. Sherlock hadn’t cared at all. He had thought it the closest he could ever get to having a baby of his own and John, and he had been ecstatic at the thought. 

He sees what Mycroft meant now. 

It’s too late, of course. Sherlock would never take this from John anyway, he never would have said no to it, but it tugs on his mind. Did John kiss Mycroft because _Mycroft_ can have John’s baby? Because together, they would be a family? Because Mycroft _will_ have sex? 

But then, when Sherlock thinks further on that, it dissolves. 

As much as John could never be happy with Mycroft - always working, not thrilling, not that interesting - Sherlock is sure of the opposite as well. Mycroft would have no idea what to do with John. Not like this. Mycroft would never take John out on a case, Mycroft would not want to lie down in the dirt, or giggle, or take John out for a cheap dinner. Never. 

Sherlock knows what jealousy feels like. He has felt it often when John finds yet another woman. But this is different. It’s more personal. Closer. But maybe because of it, it’s also less… 

Mycroft wouldn’t take John completely - he wouldn’t even know how. Mycroft doesn’t have time for that. People. John would never move in with Mycroft. John would never marry Mycroft. John would never…

Leave. 

_If John could have Mycroft, he would never leave._

Sherlock finds that thought unsettling. 

Mostly because he can’t stop thinking it. 

 

-

 

They have Violet over for the night because Mycroft has to work late, and he needs to make sure that he has the opportunity to rest. Sherlock told him so, to Mycroft’s raised eyebrow and vaguely insulted look, and he did agree to it. 

For the baby. 

Violet’s asleep in the bed, spread out right in the middle. John says, as they get in and try to fit around her without waking her, “We should we get her a bed of her own soon. Maybe put a single by the wall, get her used to it before the baby’s here?” 

He is right. Sherlock has thought it, too. He has just been postponing it, because he likes sleeping like this. With Violet, the bed feels so warm and full. 

John goes on, sounding amused, “I guess when she’s older I’m going to have to give up my room, aren’t I? Can you imagine a teenager up there?” 

Sherlock feels surprised that John’s thinking that far ahead. 

He blinks, and John must see some of his shock, because he says, “Oh, we’re not nearly there yet, don’t look so worried.” 

Sherlock looks at Violet. She seems younger in sleep. Not like the busy toddler she is when she’s awake. John’s right, though. “She grows fast.” 

“Yeah.” John sounds briefly sad about it, too. “That’s it, probably, right? You get through it all, and then you’re surprised when suddenly they’re big.” 

Sherlock eyes him, and he can feel a wave of love for him. For so long, he thought John would be like this with Mary. That it would be _their_ children, John and Mary’s. That he would have to love John from afar for the rest of his life, never really having him close. Sherlock had been prepared to do that. 

But now they sleep together in Baker Street, have cases and Violet, a family of their own. Sherlock never, ever dared to dream of this. 

He says, “You’re good at this, John.”

“What, kids? No, it’s you who’s... as soon as Violet was born, you just did it. I never thought you even wanted any.” 

“I didn’t want children.” Sherlock says it truthfully. He never thought he could possibly have this. 

John smiles. “Yeah, well, prepare, you’re about to have two.” 

But Sherlock doesn’t. _Have_ them. “The baby is your child, John. Not mine.” 

John shrugs. “Is there a difference, really? It’s the three of us raising them, right? It’ll be just as much yours as mine.” Then, gentler, “Hey... He’ll be yours too. You know that, right?” John takes his hand. 

Sherlock nods, slowly. John is right, of course. 

But he needed to hear it. 

 

-

 

Sherlock is home alone when Mycroft arrives to collect Violet.

Violet’s still out with Mrs. Hudson, officially to the shop. Sherlock knows it’s because Mrs. Hudson likes to show her off to her knitting circle. Sherlock is sure that Mycroft knows this, too, but he’s never said anything against it, so Sherlock assumes it’s fine by him. Of course, Violet being adored by elderly knitting enthusiasts and being passed around from one to the next doesn’t exactly sound dangerous. 

But still, Mycroft must know that she’s not due back for another fifteen minutes, which means he came to bond, first. 

Sherlock deduces all of this the moment after Mycroft arrives. 

The pregnancy is visible now in Mycroft’s posture, and the way he walks. Sherlock doesn’t think he’s heavier this time around than the first, but his stomach seems to be expanding earlier. 

Mycroft nods, then sits down on the sofa next to him. It’s a request. Sherlock could ignore it, and Mycroft probably wouldn’t push, because it’s not dire yet, but Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. He moves closer. Smells Mycroft, and he can feel the comfortable urge to touch. 

Mycroft tilts his neck so Sherlock can reach, and he licks, then bites it. 

These days, it’s done in few minutes. 

Mycroft sits back comfortably. 

Sherlock feels the wave of reassurance, too. It’s still nice. He looks Mycroft over and asks, “How many years has it been since you’ve had sex?” 

Mycroft instantly raises his eyebrows and sits up, not nearly as at ease as he was a moment ago. “ _Why?_ ” 

“Eight years? Nine?” Sherlock can’t be sure, but if Mycroft really didn’t date while he was gone, then it’s been at least that long. 

Mycroft looks insulted, which means it’s probably close to the truth. “…I fail to see how that is your business.” 

“It’s true, though.” Sherlock says it as a challenge. 

Mycroft sighs and gives in. “Yes, it is. Now what does that matter?” 

John, of course. Mycroft knows that, judging by his faintly panicked expression. Sherlock says, “He’s mine. John.”

Mycroft closes his eyes, briefly, then says, “ _Of course_ he is, Sherlock, I would never contest that.” Mycroft looks at him, trying to underline how sincere he is. “You must know that.” 

Yes. Sherlock believes him. That’s why he needs to say this. 

“You would let him be mine.” It’s the pressing, urgent, logical thought that he can’t control. “...even if you kiss him again.” 

Mycroft looks confused. “I won’t. We have all agreed it was a mistake.” He looks serious. “Perhaps we should try to move on?” 

But no, Sherlock knows this is true. “John wants it.” He looks at Mycroft and wills away the pain at even saying it. “And I need him to have someone who knows he’s mine.” 

Mycroft looks at him, understands what he’s saying, and then immediately stands up, as if he physically wants to remove himself from the idea. “No! _Absolutely not._ ” 

He seems disturbed. 

He sighs, then says, “Sherlock, _no_. You need to talk about these things with him if you want them, but for myself, we already have so much between us, it’s much more important that we’re all…” His mouth pulls at the word, but he does say it. “...family.” 

“We’re not just _family_.” Sherlock hates the word about as much as Mycroft does. But this is different, it’s not the inevitable, it wasn’t made for them. They chose this. 

Mycroft looks downwards. “No, I imagine not the way it is for most-” 

“You didn’t think we should bond.” 

Immediately, Mycroft has something guilty in his eyes. “No, I did not think we should. You chose to, and I am very grateful you did, but it is hardly the same.” 

That was _more_ , too. And so is John. So is all of it. 

There’s the sound of the downstairs door, and Violet’s excited voice, “She'lock home? Are you home?” and Mrs. Hudson’s reply, “They probably are, dear.” 

Mycroft raises his voice to answer her. “We’re here.” 

And, with a last troubled look at Sherlock, goes to get her.

 

 

 

 

 


	69. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft can feel Sherlock’s words stab him. 

The sheer idea is ludicrous, and it is unbelievable that Sherlock would even verbalise it. He is more than surprised - he is deeply uncomfortable with the suggestion. It’s all for John’s sake, Mycroft knows that much, but he cannot help but feel somewhat sickened at the sheer scope of Sherlock’s love for John that he would even consider such a thing. 

Luckily, Violet is very much awake, and therefore Mycroft has little time to think of anything else than feeding her dinner, bathing her, reading her today’s bedtime story several times over, then tucking her in. And then, waiting for the nightly litany where she yells for water, and another cuddly toy, and her dummy, and then finally falls asleep. 

It’s nearly eleven by the time Mycroft has a bath himself and gets to bed. He is aware that if he were to attempt to sleep now, he would do nothing more than dwell on it, so he takes some paperwork with him to bed, piles the pillows behind his aching back, and works. 

It helps to distract him. But it is his body that does most of the pulling him back to the moment. The baby is rather active now that he can feel it. It still feels nothing like the brutal kicking Mycroft remembers from the last months with Violet. It is only a faint turning, almost churning inside of him at this point. But it is, unmistakably, movement. 

Mycroft puts his hand on his stomach to calm it and reads on, only for it to happen again a couple of minutes later. It is as if the baby is telling him to sleep. Or to pay attention to it. Neither of which he will do at this moment. 

Mycroft finally puts his files aside after two AM, turns the light off, and closes his burning eyes. 

The baby moves once more, and Mycroft tells it mentally, _Sleep now._

Either it agrees, or he is too tired to notice, because he does fall asleep very soon after. 

The seven AM alarm is too early, as ever. There were years where Mycroft could function perfectly well on three or four hours of sleep a night, but those have long passed.

He lifts Violet out of bed and reminds her to be careful of his stomach when she nearly kicks him. She says, “Baby belly?”

Mycroft agrees as he carries her downstairs. “Yes, there is a baby in my belly.” He thinks about it, then says, “Your brother, in fact.” There is no reason not to tell Violet, although Mycroft doubts that she is old enough to understand the concept. 

Mycroft remembers being told that he would have a little brother or sister. At the time he mirrored his parents’ attitude about it, and thought it would be inconvenient. That it would cry a lot. He can’t remember whether he felt even a hint of excitement at Sherlock’s impending birth. It was only when Sherlock was actually there in his arms that Mycroft cared for him. 

Mummy often laughed at it. She made little remarks such as, “Oh, you can see Mykie’s an omega. You can’t leave that baby alone, can you?” 

Even then, Mycroft had understood that it was an insult. 

He had felt embarrassed, because it was true. He _couldn’t_ let Sherlock cry for hours and hours. Mycroft figured out how to change him. How to soothe him. How to be there for him. 

It took many years before Mycroft looked back on his own actions then and realised that he should not have been ashamed at all. He was there for Sherlock when they were not. His caring was not a defect to be negated or suppressed, but something essential. Something that he does not regret giving. 

Mycroft wonders whether it played into his decision to have Violet. For such a long time, he assumed that he would be looked upon negatively for choosing to have a child. That his caring would be considered a character flaw. 

Just as caring for anyone else would be. 

 

-

 

John calls the next day, which is rare enough that Mycroft immediately answers, even though he is in the middle of some rather delicate negotiations. “John?”

“Yeah, hi.” John sounds hesitant. “We need to talk about Sherlock, because it’s…” John laughs, apparently somewhat self-conscious. “He’s been saying things that, um… well.”

Mycroft has a very good idea of what sort of things Sherlock has been saying. “I will be in the Diogenes Club this evening, if you want to come by after work?” He can give John a ride home after. 

“Okay. I’ll be there by six thirty-ish?” 

“Good, see you then.” Mycroft ends the call quickly, since he really is quite busy. 

But he can feel dread run through him for the rest of the day. Which, surely, is unnecessary. John will want to discuss whatever Sherlock has said, but that does not necessarily mean that John will suggest that… 

It does. If Mycroft is being honest with himself, he has to consider that if John was given even the faintest sense of permission from Sherlock, he will propose they have sex. 

Mycroft has not allowed himself to think along those lines at all. And he needs to have a clear answer prepared for when John does suggest it. 

A rejection, obviously. Mycroft truly cannot see how this will not end in disaster if he does agree to anything. There is too much at stake. Perhaps if John was not Sherlock’s partner, perhaps if Sherlock was not his brother, if they did not have two children between them, perhaps then… but Mycroft knows that line of thinking is unreasonable. These are the reasons why he is so close to John to begin with. If these things would not have happened, this situation would not have, either. 

Or, at the very least, it would not have felt like this. 

Mycroft remembers his first meeting with John. An army doctor with an addiction to taking risks - Mycroft had not thought him especially good-looking, but he had engendered the type of attraction that comes from a man that knows who he is and what he wants. Mycroft had not felt any issue with Sherlock choosing John as his companion. He had mentally considered Sherlock’s choice as ‘well-founded,’ even. 

But now, John is a whole different world. 

John is laughter. John is a partner in raising Violet. John is attentive and kind. And what he offers is entirely tempting. 

Mycroft is loathe to admit it, but it is true. 

Mycroft always assumed himself above that. He always could see the mistakes others made in the name of love approaching a mile away, and deftly avoided entanglements of the sort for his entire life. 

Mycroft is fully content living alongside Sherlock and John and raising his family. More than content - it has been an unexpected blessing. So then why would this matter to him? Why would it cost him anything to say no? Because the kissing was surprisingly intimate? As Sherlock rightly deduced, Mycroft has not been touched in many years. And he has not allowed anyone close to his mind or his heart in just as many, so of course a kiss now would be meaningful to him. 

But not to John. 

Mycroft has seen the way John loves, and he does not want that for himself. Why would he, when he can see Sherlock’s suffering daily? 

Sherlock seems to think that offering this to John will somehow bring the balance he so longs for, but Mycroft knows it will not. How could it? Not when there is that much reality that tells him otherwise. 

Mycroft has hardly ever been foolish. He will not start now. 

 

-

 

Around five, right as he is in the car on his way to the Diogenes Club, his phone rings again. He checks the caller ID. ‘Mummy and Father.’ 

The temptation to simply ignore it is strong.

But Mycroft prefers not to, because he needs to avoid dealing with any unplanned appearances in London. So he regularly listens to Mummy trying to guilt him into coming home. He regularly makes excuses about his inability to visit, about Sherlock’s refusal to do the same, and her voice always tilts into some previously unknown level of fragility. She sounds just like any old woman, playing to some sentiment that Mycroft certainly does not possess. 

With a sigh, he answers, “Yes?” 

“Mykie? Mykie… it’s Dad.” 

Yes, Mycroft can hear that. Although he cannot recall a time where his father has ever called him. He sounds old. _Slow._ Of course he always was so very regular, so very normal and average. 

“It’s…” He gasps for breath, and Mycroft feels a flicker of worry, quickly overshadowed by what comes next. “Mummy – Margaret – your mother. She died. This morning.” 

Mycroft’s hand shakes slightly. 

“It was a cold, you know. Or well, we thought it was, she thought it was a cold. It’s been the time for it. And then-”

Mycroft interrupts him, “Have you told Sherlock?” 

“Yes, yes, I called him first. I thought, well, you see...”

Mycroft stops listening. He puts the phone aside and raises his voice to the driver, “Baker Street instead, _quickly_.” The car turns. He tells Father, “I will call you back about the funeral arrangements.” 

“Yes, and-”

Mycroft ends the call and immediately selects Sherlock’s number. The phone rings, and Mycroft can feel a dull sense of panic claw its way up with every ring. _Sherlock has Violet._ He should be answering his phone. 

After the second try, Mycroft tries Mrs. Hudson’s number. She does answer. “Hello?” 

“Mycroft Holmes here, is Violet with you?” 

“He just came by and pushed her into my arms! I do have things to do, you know, he can’t always, I mean, not that I mind...”

Mycroft feels some relief. At least Sherlock put Violet somewhere safe, first. “Do you know where he went?”

“No, no, and in such a hurry, too, he looked as pale as a sheet he did.” 

“I will be there for Violet in fifteen minutes.”

Mycroft ends the call, tries Sherlock again, and then selects John’s number. He tries not to call John at work since John only keeps his phone on for emergencies, but Mycroft feels that this qualifies. 

John answers, his voice sounding bright. _Happy._ “Mycroft, hi, I’m not done...”

“John, can you leave work early and come home?”

“...I could, yeah, what happened?”

“Our mother died.”

 

 

 

 

 


	70. (John)

 

 

John hurries through the tube station. He pushes past the other commuters by the ticket barrier and keeps his phone in his hand, his fingers tight around it, just in case Sherlock calls. Or Mycroft, again. 

The ride home is nauseatingly slow. John has no idea how Sherlock took the news, except that he ran off. But it’s never great, is it, to hear something like that? 

John’s steaming with sweat but in too much of a rush to take his jacket off as he speed-walks out of the tube entrance, all the way down Baker Street, barely avoiding bumping into pedestrians. He takes his key out well in advance, then opens the door and runs up the stairs. He can see no one there yet, hear no voices upstairs, either. John opens the door, and…

Mycroft is there, sitting on the sofa. He’s holding Violet. Mrs. Hudson is there as well, with an untouched cup of tea and saucer set in front of Mycroft on the living room table. Sherlock’s still gone. John looks at Mycroft - this can’t be easy for him, either - but he seems perfectly composed. “Can you track him down?”

“I could, yes.” Mycroft tilts his head. “But he acted responsibly in handing Violet over.” He seems in doubt about what to do. “If he wants some privacy perhaps we should give it to him?”

He’s asking their opinion. But John has no idea. “Yeah?” 

He really has no clue what Sherlock and grief is even like. Or what Sherlock’s relationship with his mother is, really. John doesn’t know the details there at all. As much as Sherlock talks about his own childhood when he tells stories to Violet, it never features their parents. At all. 

Mycroft gets up with some difficultly while holding Violet. “I will go home, there is a lot to arrange.” He looks at him. “Do let me know when he returns, or if you require assistance.” 

“Right, okay, I’ll find him.”

John takes his phone and calls Sherlock again. Nothing. He texts, “Sherlock, it’s fine if you need a minute, but let me know you’re okay? JW” And then, since Sherlock might not know, “I’m home. JW”

 

-

 

Two hours later, Sherlock hasn’t replied to a single message. 

John’s called Greg, then Molly, but neither of them have seen Sherlock. John sends messages back and forth to Mycroft, feeling increasingly worried. 

Finally, John goes down to Mrs. Hudson’s, tells her, “I’m going to look for him, if he comes home let me know,” and heads out. 

It’s getting dark. The wind has picked up, too. It’s early October, and it feels cool and dreary out. Despite the weather, John picks the park first. Sherlock goes there a lot with Violet. Rarely on his own as far as John knows, but it’s close by and it’s as good a place to start as any. 

The gates are still open, but they’ll be shut soon, so he’ll have to hurry. John walks over the gravel, scanning the trees and the water as well as the expanse of grass. 

The trees are dark skeletons that wave in the wind. The breeze ruffles the water up in waves. 

There’s the sound of ducks, but he can’t see them anywhere. Some noise from the street. John walks a half-circle around the lake and scans the benches as he goes, but he doesn’t see anyone. 

He gets out right before they close the park, and then stands by the gate, looking around. London is huge. There’s really no way to know where Sherlock could have gone hours ago, or where he is now. 

John checks his phone - still nothing - and moves on, thinking while he walks. 

The South Bank? Sherlock walked there once when he was annoyed, but it seems like it would be too crowded now. John turns towards it anyway, his legs straining a bit as he ups the pace. 

He makes it there in under twenty minutes, but he’s right, it is rather busy at this time of evening. He hurries through a faceless crowd. The buildings are lit, and he can hear excited chatter and bits of conversations as he passes by several families and couples. It all seems too cheery right now. Somewhat unreal. John checks every bench never the less. Once he’s at the bridge in view of Big Ben though, it feels useless. It’s too public, there’s no way Sherlock is here. But he can’t think of any other places. It feels like he should. Like John should know this by now, know Sherlock. 

John texts Mycroft, “I can’t find him, do you know where he is? Please? JW” 

Mycroft replies a couple of minutes later, “CCTV picked him up near Islington about an hour ago. I believe it might be best if you go home. MH” 

John does, slowly. He’s cold, now. 

It feels stupid, he shouldn’t even have tried to find Sherlock. To... what? Swoop in like it’s some amazing rescue? To hold him close and make it all better again? There’s no way John could do that, is there? Sherlock doesn’t want to be held. Or kissed, or cry on his shoulder, or fuck until it all goes away. 

No, Sherlock wants to be left the hell alone. 

John can understand that, really. He can. He goes home, tells Mrs. Hudson - who’s in a pink floral nightgown by now - to just go to bed, and once he’s up there he has a shower, a glass of whisky, and then lies down on the sofa. He’ll hear Sherlock when he comes in. 

Or that’s the thought, anyway. 

 

-

 

John blinks his eyes open to some faded light. It feels early. He’s cold, he kicked the blanket off at some point during the night. His toes are freezing and his neck has a crick in it. 

But Sherlock is sitting on his chair. His legs are crossed in an oddly teenager-like pose. His hands are placed over his mouth. 

John says, his voice rasping in the silence, “Hey.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick up to glance at him. 

John sits up slowly - his back isn’t made for sleeping like this anymore – and walks over to him. He hesitates, but then puts a hand on Sherlock’s bony shoulder. Sherlock feels cold, too. John doesn’t know what to say, his mind’s muddled with sleep, never mind that there’s not really words for ‘I know it really sucks that your mum died but seriously, running away, don’t.’ So John doesn’t say anything. 

He goes to make tea, instead. The kitchen’s dark this early, but he doesn’t turn the light on. He leans against the counter as he waits for the kettle to boil. Rubs his eyes. Stretches his back a bit. 

If this didn’t happen... John might have gotten somewhere with Mycroft. It seems pretty far away now, but he was going to try and talk to him last night. 

Sherlock comes over. John turns to him, and Sherlock fits his hand around his hip, presses the cool tip of his nose to John’s neck and then sort of breathes there. John lets him. He takes Sherlock’s hand and holds it around his waist. 

They sway like that for a moment, in the cool, dark kitchen.

Then the kettle boils, and Sherlock lets go.

 

-

 

Mycroft texts the details about the funeral. 

A car will pick them up at Baker Street at noon, the nanny will keep Violet at home, and they should be back by evening. John’s not sure he’s meant to be going as well until there’s a delivery of two dark suits, one for him and one for Sherlock. 

Sherlock doesn’t say a word about it. 

He’s the same as ever with Violet, but when they’re alone he doesn’t mention it once. Mrs. Hudson tuts over him even more than usual. She whispers, “You think he’s dealing well?” 

And John has to shrug. “I hope so?” 

John had some idea that he’d have to remind Sherlock about when to get ready, but as he wakes up on Saturday, Sherlock is already dressed in black. John feels strange getting into his own suit. He’s not even sure why he’s going, really. 

Mycroft comes up to get them. He looks surprisingly stylish, John thinks. He’s wearing a dark suit, tailored perfectly around his pregnancy, not hiding it, but not exaggerating it, either. He has his long, dark coat over it. A black umbrella, a dark scarf, and a pocket watch chain from the side of his waistcoat. He looks at them with a serious gaze, and they follow.

Mycroft takes the front seat in the car, next to the driver, so John and Sherlock share the back.

John tries to meet Mycroft’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, but he’s not looking at him.

They are driven a couple of hours out of London, to a small church, with some cars and people outside already. 

When they arrive, John sees a similar change in both of them. Mycroft pulls his shoulders back and briefly puts a hand on his stomach before he sighs and steps out, every inch the stern, perfect, cold omega. And Sherlock swallows, but his eyes seem distant as he steps out, too, a larger than life alpha. 

John feels useless between them. 

He’s here as Sherlock’s partner, apparently. John thought that it would be strange having to do the rounds and being introduced to family and friends, but Mycroft and Sherlock do no such thing. They simply stride in, and John hurries behind. 

The coffin is positioned in front of the church. And next to it, on the front row, a white-haired man that John recognises. The one Christmas that John met Mr. Holmes, John already thought that he did not sound a thing like either Mycroft or Sherlock - their parents seemed so ridiculously normal. But the man’s downturned shoulders and old, grey suit make it even clearer. 

Sherlock and Mycroft don’t look a thing like their father. 

Sherlock is there first. John can see Mr. Holmes’ wobbly smile, his unsteady rise, and the awkward way in which he doesn’t reach out a hand, or tries to hug Sherlock. He simply looks over to Mycroft and says, “Mykie,” as if it’s a normal event. 

John walks up as well, and he does extend a hand. “Mr. Holmes.”

“Ah, yes, John, is it?” He checks with Sherlock.

“Yes.” Sherlock says sullenly.

“Well, you better sit down.”

And that is how John sits on the first row, in-between their father and Sherlock. Mycroft sits a little distance away. He has buttoned his coat, and the fabric hides most of his pregnancy. 

Mr. Holmes turns to John, smiles, and says, “She’d be so happy that you’re all here.”

John nods, awkwardly.

“She wasn’t feeling well, you see. A cold. It’s been the time for it. And she never liked doctors, no, she never liked doctors.” He smiles at the coffin. “I told her, you better go! But then she never listened to me, did she? A firecracker, that one.” 

He pauses, and John wonders whether he is supposed to say something. 

“She always wanted to go first. She said so. So I suppose that’s a good thing. She never wanted to be in one of those nursing homes. Too boring, you see.”

John glances at Sherlock, but he is clearly not listening, staring straight ahead.

“So this is what she would have wanted, I think. Her boys both here, yes…”

His voice peters out. 

He asks nothing of either Sherlock or Mycroft. 

John always thought that Mycroft kept Violet a secret because the fact that he bonded to Sherlock is not exactly the sort of thing that’s easy to explain. But listening to this man now, John wonders whether they would have cared about that at all. It’s hard to imagine him not just easily accepting whatever explanation he would be given. 

The mass starts soon after, thankfully. It’s the regular fire-and-brimstone stuff. John glances over and expects to see annoyance in Sherlock and Mycroft’s expressions, some eye-rolling and cringing, but there’s nothing. They’re two still figures, dressed in black, sitting side by side.

When it ends, they get up and lead the way, everyone else filing out after them one row at a time. 

Once outside, there’s people offering their condolences, but Mycroft doesn’t acknowledge a single one of them and moves straight past them. Sherlock lingers a bit and looks at his father, so John leaves them together and hurries to catch up with Mycroft. 

Mycroft was fast, he’s already a fair bit away, walking next to the stones of the cemetery with his umbrella to his side. 

He looks like he could use a cigarette. 

John walks up slowly, not sure whether he’s wanted or not. Or if there’s anything to say, really. He risks, “You wishing you could smoke?”

“Terribly much.” 

John smiles. They look over the graves together. Most of them are overgrown. Unkept. But there’s one freshly dug. John wonders whether they grew up here. Whether this is their church, where he could imagine two small boys bored out of their minds. 

“Some liquor might be pleasant right now as well.”

John half-laughs. “Hm, I bet.” 

Mycroft makes no move to go back. John glances at him. He can’t tell whether Mycroft’s upset, or just weathering the time until they can go. 

John nods towards his belly. “I don’t think he’s noticed.”

Mycroft sighs. “No, I imagine I could be nine months pregnant and he still wouldn’t.” 

Right. John looks down at their feet.

They don’t move.

Just wait.

 

 

 

 

 


	71. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock watches Mummy’s funeral, and tries to dissect the dull routine of it all. The rites - recited by a priest who has a drinking problem. The words - senseless. 

Sherlock can easily deduce why everyone is here. A fair few of them are neighbours, but most never liked Mummy. The dislike was mutual, she couldn’t stand them either. Some old colleagues, some friends. It’s mostly to distract himself from the tension radiating off Mycroft’s shape. From John’s solemn look. And Father... Sherlock feels a stab of guilt now. It was so much easier to just stay away. But he never hated him, or even disliked him. Nothing like Mycroft claims to feel. 

When the service is over, Mycroft instantly leaves the throng of well-wishers, and John follows him.

Sherlock, not entirely sure why, lingers. 

There are a few aunts and old acquaintances. They’d all talk to him if he allowed it. He could receive the blatantly empty condolences, the barely-meant ‘So sorry for your loss.’ Instead, Sherlock turns to Father, who smiles mildly, and says, “She would have been so happy to have you here, Sherlock.” 

Which is an absolutely idiotic thing to say. _Her_ potential happiness shouldn’t mean a thing to anyone anymore. 

Why instead of saying that, he says, “One would hope so.” Sherlock’s not sure. 

Mummy would have smiled at that, but Father just agrees pleasantly, not getting it as per usual. “I’m sure of it.” 

One of the distant relatives cuts in, “Such a loss…” and Sherlock turns away. He pretends to study the art on the side of the church doors. The inscription is wrong, no way that is a cutting from the eighteen hundreds, this church wasn’t even built yet then. 

The priest is outside along with his busily chatting flock. There are some stragglers cleaning up the hymnal books. And then once they leave and he’s alone, Sherlock slips back inside towards the front.

He looks at the casket. It’s a gleaming dark elm wood. Quality, but then Mycroft would have chosen the best, wouldn’t he? A final farewell, a subtle _fuck you_ , he’s entirely too good at things like that.

Sherlock presses his fingers under the lid, then takes out the screw driver he has in his coat pocket. It’s sealed, but there is a lever in the top corner, and if he unscrews the bottom half it’s easy enough to open. He has done this at a funeral or two with murder victims before, when he needed a last bit of evidence. Cracking this one open doesn’t feel any different. 

The smell is instantly familiar - refrigerated death. There’s white trimming on the inside.

And there is Mummy. 

Her face is sunken. Her cheekbones are standing out sharply and the flesh of her cheeks and neck is hanging in folds from it. Her skin is a greyish pale hue. Her make-up is done differently than usual, but with some care, Sherlock notes. By a young make-up artist probably, since Mummy never would have worn that particular shade of eye shadow. 

She’s been well preserved. A natural death and then immediately refrigerated, it would have been an easy job. 

Sherlock briefly inspects her for any signs of foul play. He turns her head and checks her hairline. He touches her hair. Briefly trails over her eyes, the skin too cool, the make-up spreading lightly. He takes her hand and checks under the (cleaned, painted) nails. He scans down her body, but doesn’t move it. There is nothing. 

He knew there wouldn’t be. 

He looks at her, one last time. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but he reseals the casket carefully. _Goodbye, Mummy._

She already isn’t this anymore. She never was this quiet. This willing to be touched, either.

Sherlock walks out, his shoes making soft taps on the tiled floor. 

 

-

 

It’s much brighter outside the church. There is a group of people surrounding Father, still chatting away. They are all appearing to be comforting him on the surface, but beneath it there is some easy glee. A funeral is an event here. Some excitement, a story to be repeated. They all seem to enjoy getting to own the suffering for a moment.

Sherlock gets stopped by the local baker. “Oh, you’re her alpha boy, aren’t you?” 

He doesn’t reply - surely they all know he is. 

He can see John and Mycroft standing together in the cemetery, very clearly projecting that they don’t want to be disturbed. 

_Good._ Sherlock joins them. 

He stands next to John, who briefly reaches out a hand and puts it on his back as an acknowledgement that he’s here. Sherlock likes it. He says, idly, “No signs of murder.”

John looks mildly shocked. “You opened the casket?” 

Mycroft meets his eye and simply nods. He’ll understand why he wanted to see her.

There’s a moment of silence. They can hear some of the distant conversations drift past on the wind. 

John asks, “So, do we wait, or do we go?” 

“She will be buried soon,” Mycroft says. Sherlock can already see the undertaker and his men waiting to take the casket. “And afterwards, I believe we should make an appearance at the wake.” Mycroft sounds sharp, the way he always is when they’re here. He sends him a look, asking for confirmation. 

Sherlock nods. 

John says, “Hey, you don’t have to. If you’d rather…” He nods at the car.

Mycroft smiles at him, distantly. “Oh, I would rather leave. But I believe one only has to attend their mother’s funeral once, so onward we go.” 

They start walking.

John says, “I’m not going to my dad’s. When he dies.” He looks between them. “Too much of a bastard to deserve it.”

It’s the first time John has ever mentioned anything about his father. Sherlock isn’t sure what to say. Should he ask more? 

Mycroft offers, sounding entirely composed, “You could always spit on his grave.” 

Sherlock looks at Mycroft with some disbelief, _what?_ But John grins. “Hm, yeah.” He turns to Mycroft. “Good thinking.” 

Sherlock keeps his head down as they walk. How does Mycroft understand John like this now, all of a sudden? Why does _he_ get to joke to make John feel better? 

 

-

 

They watch the casket being lowered into the ground, and then get back into the car for the short ride to the house.

They shuffle inside. There is a spread of breads and cakes set out in the kitchen with a professional attendant, and a long table in the living room to sit. It’s as impersonal as it is efficient.

Father was waiting for them, and as they walk in, he says, to the room at large, “Mykie arranged it all, he’s done such a good job.” 

As if Mycroft cares about that praise. 

Mycroft disappears. 

John goes to the table and, with a shrug, heaps some food on a plate. Sherlock gets a coffee, and sits next to John. He steals a biscuit from his plate, and John smiles at it. They sit there and disappear into the conversations around them. John talks diligently to whoever wants to, again and again. “Yes, so terrible, thank you, of course.”

Sherlock slips out of the moment. He sinks into his mind palace and tries not to notice the little details of the house. Without Mummy running around to serve them all and to bicker with Mycroft, it feels off. Wrong. As if none of those here deserve to be inside. As if he needs to delete them one by one, until it’s just John, here. 

John.

Who once mentioned he didn’t want to ever come back here for Christmas, because… Sherlock opens his eyes. Of course, John has bad memories of this house. John didn’t want to come back, what was he thinking? Sherlock looks at John. He never should have brought him here. 

John just eyes him comfortably. And then looks again and excuses himself from the conversation with whoever it was. John leans closer and says lowly, “Sherlock? You okay?”

He touches his arm. 

Sherlock wants to apologise for forgetting about the lying John had to do right here to Mary. For all of it. Especially as John looks so softly at him right now, so caring. But he can’t say all of that here, so he clamps onto John’s arm, soundlessly asking him for forgiveness. 

John misunderstands, or maybe he does get it, because he puts his plate of food to the side, takes his hand, and steers him out of the room.

People see, there are looks and whispers, but Sherlock doesn’t care. It’s good to leave. 

John takes him to the hallway and then hesitates, obviously not sure where to go. Seeing the stairs, Sherlock takes them up. “Come.”

“All right.” John follows as Sherlock walks upstairs quickly. The steps disappear under his feet in years of muscle memory. Being small here, playing. Gangly teenage moments, stomping off. The rare returns as an adult, careful and silent. 

Sherlock opens the door to the room. It’s not _his_. It hasn’t been in a very long time, but still it feels as if time stood still when he walks inside. Sherlock sees the details that John will never notice. The missed paint chips, the lines on the wall, the faded, barely-visible square where the bookcase used to stand before Mummy moved it. 

It’s not his room anymore. It’s a parody of what Mummy thought her boys’ room was. It’s a re-creation of a thing that was never here. Something she did in her love for him, while she never really saw him. 

It’s nothing like Mycroft’s room, that she didn’t touch for years but that Sherlock slept in, that Sherlock wanted to own because it was filled with Mycroft’s things.

John sits down on the single bed. “So this was yours then?”

“For some time, yes.” 

John’s eyes see the children’s microscope placed on the desk as if it’s posing - Sherlock had one from age seven, actually. Given to him for Christmas. He had it until he destroyed it in a fit of rage at fifteen. 

There is a painting on the wall of a dog. Not theirs. Mummy put it there. 

“Hey.” John touches him again. 

Sherlock sits down next to John, then bends his face towards John’s neck, leans on his shoulder, and breathes him in. It doesn’t feel like giving in. Just a moment of calm. He closes his eyes to all the details, so sharp and jarringly wrong, and simply breathes. 

John’s arm hesitantly settles around his back. 

He doesn’t speak, and Sherlock is glad of it. John clearly thinks he’s upset that Mummy died. John thinks that Sherlock is falling apart because he just attended her funeral, and because he should realise that it is forever and that her death should make him feel alone. 

The truth is that he was always alone. 

When Mycroft wasn’t here, it was like existing around two people rather than interacting with them. Sherlock always felt too large to live in this space. Too angry, too much. 

The seconds tick away slowly. Sherlock’s aware that if he stops leaning on John, John will insist they go back down. So what is the harm in pretending? John probably likes it. Sherlock can feel the moist heat of his own breath against John’s suit jacket. He can feel the way John’s muscles have gone slack. This - the giving of comfort - provides meaning for John. 

But John moves a little. His breath changes, as if he wants to say something. Sherlock quickly says, muffled, “Don’t.”

John exhales. He sounds as if he smiles. “Okay.” 

But it’s not the same, now. Sherlock moves back. John stops touching him. 

And then there’s a small knock on the half-opened door. Mycroft is standing in the doorway. “My apologies for disturbing you.” He does look sorry. “But I would rather like to leave.” 

Sherlock can see the glaring irritation in Mycroft’s eyes. The way he’s holding himself utterly upright. This was always harder for Mycroft. 

Sherlock stands. He can see Mycroft briefly scanning the bedroom as well - the painting, the microscope, the school books. He doesn’t react, but he must know how wrong it is. Sherlock can’t wait to leave now. He steps out. “Come on.”

He’d thought to slip out, but Father sees them coming down the stairs, and moves towards them. “You should come by more often, Sherlock! She wouldn’t have wanted this, the two of you so far away. I always told her you’re busy, but at least once, it’s...”

Sherlock can feel his patience running out. Or actually, it ran out hours ago. Half the people at the funeral noticed that Mycroft’s pregnant, but not Father, oh no, he’s as clueless as he always is. They _knew_ , surely. Or Mummy must have suspected at least. Sherlock says, “We didn’t come because Mycroft has a child.” 

Mycroft shifts next to him, clearly annoyed that he said it.

Father’s face falls. “A child? Mykie?” He smiles. “No… That’s not true, is it? Are you joking?”

Mycroft takes a tight, controlled breath. “I have a daughter.” 

“Mykie, you never told us! Why didn’t you? What’s her name?”

Mycroft stills. 

Sherlock tells him. “Violet.” 

Father smiles. “You named her after…” He looks at John and explains, “My mother was a Violet.” 

“Yes, we’re all aware of that fact.” Mycroft says it dryly. 

Father already sounds emotional. “Your mother would have loved her. Oh, Mykie, a daughter...”

Mycroft’s face pulls. Then he glances at John, who is following attentively. “Also, I am currently pregnant with a second.” 

“Another?” Father frowns. “But why didn’t you tell us?”

Mycroft turns around. “I believe the rest is private and not to be discussed right now. Goodbye, Father. Shall we?”

Sherlock nods. “Bye.”

John follows as well, questions clear in his eyes, but he doesn’t say a thing. 

 

-

 

The mood in the car is tense. 

Mycroft sits up front again, but Sherlock wishes he was closer so he could bond with him, because he smells distressed. Annoyed, along with nervous and exhausted. 

John looks between them, but he is obviously trying to stay out of it. 

After a couple of minutes of silence, Sherlock says, “Did you see the microscope?” He knows Mycroft did.

Mycroft sighs, deeply. “Yes. My room had one, too.”

“Wait, that wasn’t yours?” 

“No.” Mycroft sounds livid. “I believe she was thinking of the next generation in buying those.”

Sherlock hadn’t deduced that. He shares a look with Mycroft. _Violet._

Then says, “You can delete the file now.” The one Mycroft has on Mummy. The detailed list of everything she did wrong. 

“No, I still look at it regularly.” Mycroft’s face goes cold. “So I remember to never repeat any of those mistakes with my own children.” 

John nods. 

The silence follows them home. 

It’s a strange, stilted evening, where Baker Street doesn’t seem as warm as it usually does. 

There should be something final about it - Mummy being gone. But it doesn’t feel like that. Instead it feels too close, still. Too near, now. 

Too real.

 

 

 

 

 


	72. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft finds it an immense relief to step over his own threshold. 

Violet is in the kitchen, toddling around the nanny’s legs as she’s cleaning up their evening meal. Mycroft says, “Good evening.” And “Hello, my Violet.” He lifts her and holds her for a long moment. He smells her hair, the scent of her - toddler, _his_ , his own - and briefly closes his eyes. 

He had assumed that Nanny wouldn’t see, and that his face is cool enough not to betray how shaken he feels. But, with compassion in her gaze, she says, “My condolences, sir.” And then, gentler, “No one wants to lose a mother.” 

Mycroft feels felt a wave of anger that surprises him. It is quickly suppressed by the squirming weight of Violet in his arms, but he puts her down and says, “One would think so.” 

Mycroft puts Violet to bed and lingers in her room as she sleeps.

Eventually, he changes out of his funeral clothes and into a comfortable dressing gown, but he cannot face attempting to sleep yet. His mind still feels as if it contains the whole day, and he does not want it to spill over into his life. 

He simply needs to put aside the feelings created by watching Mummy’s funeral. It was difficult enough to be at the church for the service, but then to return to the house afterwards... He had not anticipated how challenging it would be to walk back into their old home and to be surrounded by the nauseating press of memory. 

He went to see his own room, because that is what one does, Mycroft supposes. It did nothing but project the utter helplessness Mummy must have felt about the both of them. She never did understand what she did wrong. 

Separating two children from the rest of humanity for years on end might not have been rational. 

Giving up her job to home school both of them would have been insanity to anyone, except to Father, who thought that it was a sacrifice she made for their family. Father must have thought that she only wanted the best. But Mummy never let them forget it.

She constantly impressed that it was their fault that she had given up her career, her goals, her everything. She had done it for them, and they were required to pay her back by not making a single mistake. By surpassing every expectation. 

Yes, Mummy would have loved Violet. 

Mummy also would have told him that it was time for speech therapy and basic sign language and flash cards and independent reading, and whatever else she could think up. 

Mummy never thought she did anything unacceptable. Not even when she determined that Sherlock was old enough to drink from his bottles himself at two months old. She assumed that crying it out had worked for Mycroft, so she had no idea why Sherlock was that much more spirited. 

Raising children was a battle for Mummy. If she would only fight hard enough, she would do the best possible job. 

And she felt that she did. Even with Sherlock, even when he was taking cocaine at age fifteen to escape her, to flee the mind that she forced him to develop. 

Mycroft wonders whether she would have expected them to cry for her. To thank her for the life she gave them. 

He looks at Violet, breathing shallowly in her sleep. He holds a hand over his stomach and thinks of the child growing there.

He is not certain whether he has any gratitude left.

 

-

 

Mycroft leaves for work earlier than usual the next morning. He barely slept, but he is more than ready to focus on something else. 

The feeling of unease remains throughout the day. Anthea knows, naturally, but she does not attempt to comment on it, and Mycroft is grateful for that. 

Finally, when he walks back into Baker Street to pick up Violet, he feels something settle. He walks into the living room and sees Sherlock on the sofa with Violet on his lap, reading from a picture book. Violet leans against Sherlock and is idly playing with his fingers as Sherlock says, “And they found the parrot. See, there it is.”

Violet touches the book, and says, “Parrot.” She sounds satisfied that they found it. 

The book is age-appropriate. She is being held, she is both happy and comfortable. Violet is perfectly on track for her age, and there is no reason to worry about her. 

Sherlock looks up. He looks as tired as Mycroft feels. 

Mycroft does not need to ask. He sits down on the sofa next to Sherlock. Violet climbs off Sherlock’s lap and onto his own, where she has less space than usual but it does not bother him yet that she leans against his stomach. And Sherlock carefully moves behind him, puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him as he leans down, then presses his lips to his neck.

Mycroft closes his eyes at the mild shiver that runs through him. 

As Sherlock bites down, it feels as though the bond is strengthened between himself and Sherlock, but his own self-awareness deepens as well. He can sense the baby, and the pressure of Violet’s hard head against his sternum, as well as Sherlock’s care in doing this.

They made it through. 

Mycroft closes his eyes and doesn’t move away. Sherlock doesn’t either. 

Caring was always a disadvantage, he was entirely right about that. But that does not mean that one cannot still choose it. 

It’s Violet who breaks the moment, as she slides off his lap to play with some plastic animals lying spread over the carpet, and Sherlock moves away. Mycroft can feel Sherlock put up walls around himself again, and he expects him to draw away completely. To be unreachable for a while until this has passed. But Sherlock says, normally enough, “We went to see the pelicans today.”

Violet doesn’t look up, but she agrees, “Yes! Really big pelicans.” 

Sherlock goes on, and Mycroft isn’t entirely certain if it’s for his benefit, or Violet’s, or even Sherlock’s own that he’s telling him this. “By the side of St. James’ Park, the same two. She likes the largest one, especially when he yawns.” 

“It’s funny.” Violet tells him.

“Yes.” Sherlock agrees. 

Mycroft gather Violet’s things and takes her. Even in the car, she is still talking. “Parrot lost!” Ah, about the book. 

“But they find him in the end?” Mycroft asks her. 

“Yes.” She nods seriously.

And then throws her head back and laughs as she sees a seagull through the window. She cranes her neck and follows its flight for as long as she can. 

And then looks on for the next thing, completely unaffected. 

She is content, Mycroft thinks. He did right having children, and he did right with Sherlock. He can feel that much as an absolute conviction, now. 

They are safe. 

 

-

 

Mycroft is working in his library. 

He has always enjoyed this room the most in his house. There is a certain comfort in the books, the grand, leather chairs, the crackle of the fire, the statues. He has a baby monitor that picks up the sounds from Violet’s room upstairs, but she has been quiet. She generally sleeps better these days. 

His phone buzzes, and Mycroft checks it. John. “Missed you tonight. Can I come by? JW” 

Mycroft hesitates. If John means to comfort him in any way he might as well stay home, because Mycroft has no desire to discuss the funeral or anything that has to do with it. 

They did mean to have a conversation before any of this happened. Mycroft is not certain that he feels differently about it now, but his mood has shifted. He has no desire to deal with John proposing to start an affair because Sherlock suggested it. Whatever flirtation John might have in mind, Mycroft has no need for it. 

He has never been one for a simple moment of lust. 

Perhaps it is best if they can put that to rest as well, then. Mycroft replies, “Yes. MH” with some trepidation. 

He can feel the baby move and wonders whether it is because he - barely, but noticeably - feels uneasy about seeing John like this. Is he projecting that onto their child? 

John knows better than to ring the doorbell. He texts instead, twenty minutes later. “I’m here. JW”. 

Mycroft has completed some work in that time, but at a much slower pace than he would have otherwise. He has been mentally preparing what exactly he will say. It is rather a relief to stand up, walk through the hallway, and open the door. 

John smiles. “Hi.” 

He is bundled up well. It is cold outside, the beginning of winter now. John has wrapped a scarf around his neck and unwinds it as they walk inside. 

Mycroft leads him into the library, and John steps to the fire. He holds his hands out. And then looks around. “I always forget how nice it is here.” He grins. “You have taste.”

“Naturally.” Mycroft pretends to be insulted. “Did you ever doubt that?” 

John, as predicted, laughs. “No, how dare I?” 

Mycroft enjoys this last trace of laughter. It is rare, and it will be even more so after they have spoken about this, he assumes. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“Hm, yeah, what do you have?” 

Mycroft has not drank at all in many months of course, but he does have a fair collection. “Would you enjoy a cognac?”

“Sure?” John smiles. 

Is John somehow finding this amusing? Mycroft eyes him carefully, but with John he is rarely completely certain of anything. He takes a moment to search for the bottle and to pour a glass for John. Only a finger, as Mycroft does not expect him to stay very long. By the time he returns, John is sitting in a chair. 

Mycroft cannot help but notice that it’s the same chair John sat in when he proposed that they have a child together. And the one where John sat when he held Violet for the first time, so long ago. Mycroft can still remember the sight exactly. John held her as if he knew what he was doing, as if his hands already possessed a habit and comfort with her that Mycroft himself could only pretend to have. 

Perhaps it has the connection in John’s mind as well, because he asks, “Violet’s asleep?”

Mycroft glances at the baby monitor. “Yes.”

He sits down in a chair across from John. There is a large gap between them, and for the first time here, Mycroft feels as if it is too distant. He momentarily considers pulling his chair closer to John for this conversation, but he remains in place, waiting for John to speak.

John has a sip of his drink, then puts it aside. “Sherlock is okay, I think. I watched him. I don’t think he’d use.” John seems certain. “Well, never sure, but…”

Yes. It has been a long time, but it is always a guess. 

Mycroft watches John’s face in the firelight and considers how age and the hint of grey in John’s hair have made him more attractive. Mycroft cannot look at John objectively, he is aware. 

But John is Sherlock’s. 

“So, before...” John pauses. “... _everything_ , Sherlock said some things.” John eyes him, clearly wishing to know how much Mycroft has guessed. 

Mycroft could make John spell it out. Hearing John summarise it would help Mycroft understand John’s motives and desires, but he finds himself unwilling to drag this out any longer. “Sherlock feels that you being with someone besides himself benefits your relationship.” As unwise as that might be. “But that person can never be me, John. It would complicate our lives endlessly.” 

Mycroft thought that John would argue, but he just nods. “I figured you’d say that.” 

It makes Mycroft feel an odd sense of regret. Perhaps he had hoped that John would insist. “Yes.” 

“It would have been great though.” John glances at him. “Sex.” 

Mycroft can feel his body respond to John’s suggestion. Despite everything, it is still tempting. He would want this. But it only underscores what Sherlock said, that this is biological. His body, despite being bonded, is longing for a mate. And John is, unconsciously or not, responding to his hormones. 

John, perhaps bolstered by his silence, offers, “Could be doable. Being complicated.”

Mycroft had been certain that he would not get involved in their relationship, but he has. It could be doable, as John says, but the potential complications are not the only reason why Mycroft must resist. He admits, “John, I believe Sherlock is mistaken.” 

“What, in thinking it could work?”

Mycroft feels vulnerable saying this much. “In sharing you at all.” _He should keep you close. You should be his alone._

John takes a sip from his drink. Taps it against his hand. He laughs, hollowly. “He doesn’t care.”

Mycroft almost wants to shake him. _Can you not see how much he cares for you?_ “He wishes you to be happy above all.” 

“Yeah.” John sighs. “That’s not always…” He looks away. “Easy.” He sounds frustrated. 

Mycroft has no answer for him. 

John stands, and Mycroft’s eyes subtly follow the curve of John’s body as he does. Perhaps it is not as clandestine as he hopes, because John challenges, “You’d want to.” It is obvious in his eyes that he thinks he knows. “If this wasn’t all so complicated.” 

Mycroft sees no sense in lying. “If we were not in this situation, then yes, I would ask you to my bed, John.” _And I would not allow you to leave for a good many hours, do trust me on that._

“Yeah, well…” John licks his lips and eyes him. “For the record: I’d say yes.” 

It is nothing but the hormones, Mycroft reminds himself. That is what influences John, what makes this feel so enormously inviting. Once they would take that attraction away, there is no real compatibility between them. It will fade. 

Mycroft starts towards the hall, and John follows, clearly willing to end this conversation. But Mycroft does not feel the sense of surety that he had anticipated in making his decision clear to John. He feels now as if he would only need to speak a word or two, strike the right tone, and the warm, subtle tension between them would break into something heated. Then John would kiss him again, they would go upstairs and find out what it feels like to share this. 

Mycroft reaches the door and opens it. “Thank you for your visit.” 

John laughs at his formality. 

Mycroft could easily ignore that, but if he is not going to allow himself a touch, or a kiss, then the least he can have is this - he tints his voice and says, “It is always a pleasure to see you, John.” 

“Yeah?” John’s eyes linger. 

“I _am_ sorry.” Mycroft is, truly. It is beyond what he would normally ever admit, but it is the truth.

John nods. “Me, too. Um, see you tomorrow?”

Back to their normal routine. Yes, that is best. “Tomorrow.” Mycroft agrees. “Good night.”

He closes the door. 

Mycroft goes back to his library. He attempts to view this experience as a closed chapter, now. But the truth is that he has not behaved like this in a very long time. It has been almost a decade since he has allowed himself to openly admit to wanting someone. 

_John._ How he would have loved to have kissed him. 

How he would have loved him.

 

 

 

 

 


	73. (John)

 

 

John isn’t sure what he thought would happen. Oh, he had a hope or two about Mycroft wanting him and asking him to spend the night, or at least a bit of misguided fumbling before Mycroft called it quits. Or, more likely, a serious talk about why they can’t, a sensible rejection, even a bit of scorn, maybe. 

But this is somewhere in the middle. 

John never thought he’d meet Mycroft’s eyes and see him looking back as if he’s something rather delicious. Someone Mycroft, despite being very clearly against it, admits to wanting. It’s an ego boost if John’s ever had one. 

But Sherlock. Hearing Mycroft say that Sherlock shouldn’t share him felt immediately right. John feels it, too. But then that doesn’t work, they’ve figured that out by now. And yet, however frustrating it can be sometimes, it _is_ worth it to be with Sherlock. John doesn’t doubt that. 

Still, he can’t stop replaying the conversation with Mycroft in his mind. It felt so close to it. To _something_. 

John walks up the stairs and into the living room. Sherlock is behind the kitchen table, doing something with a collection of Petri dishes. John can see a small slice of pancreas. 

Sherlock looks up, and John saves him the trouble. “Yes, we talked about it. And no, he’s not going for it.” 

Sherlock nods. 

He looks a little relieved, and that makes John feel even guiltier. He would have done it. He would have fucked Mycroft tonight. But maybe Mycroft was right, and it should be just Sherlock. Maybe that’s the only thing that makes sense. 

John hangs his coat up. And then, feeling Sherlock out, he asks, “You really never feel jealous?”

Alphas are. Any normal alpha would want to make their partner theirs forever. If Sherlock was anything like that, he’d want to mark him and take him again and again. John’s not sure if he’d be into that, really, but if it was as intense as he imagines it to be, he would prefer that over this. It would be _real_ , then. It would feel as if Sherlock needs him. Wants him. 

Sherlock puts the Petri dish to the side and picks up another. “Of Mycroft?” 

“Or Mara, or anyone, why don’t you…” John steps towards Sherlock. “Why don’t you want to, I don’t know, beat them up? Or tell them they can’t touch me - any of that?” 

“Things an alpha would.” Sherlock has an edge to his voice. 

“Well, yes. Why don’t you?” 

John realises his mistake in asking when Sherlock turns his dish over and his eyes turn thunderous. “We aren’t all like that.” 

All right, then. 

John thinks of Mycroft again. Was Mycroft right? Should he be basically celibate for forever with Sherlock, because that’s the choice that’ll hurt Sherlock the least? 

“You’ll stay.” Sherlock says it hoarsely.

John has to think back to their conversation to remember what he asked. “What?” 

“If you have sex with Mycroft. Regularly.” Sherlock is still studiously looking at his Petri dish, but it feels important. 

John blinks. “...I’ll stay anyway.” What, is Sherlock doubting that? He wouldn’t be totally… Fine, he wouldn’t be totally happy maybe, but he’d stay. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Sherlock is quiet, so John steps closer and says, carefully, “Sherlock?” John wants to reach out and kiss him. Or touch him, at least. Hold him, do anything to make it feel right, but he can’t do that. And he _doesn’t_ , never, all for Sherlock. That should tell him enough, John thinks. “I’m staying, all right?” 

Sherlock nods, but it seems distant. 

 

-

 

John goes upstairs to his old room again. 

It’s barely used these days, and it feels like it. The room smells empty, unused, and it’s cold. As soon as he’s there he doesn’t actually want to be there, all of his books are downstairs, there’s nothing to do. But he sits down on the bed anyway. The sheets are dusty.

He’s got a headache building. 

John takes his phone and types, “Sherlock doesn’t want me like that. We’re not having sex. Or barely. We’re not that, we’ll never be. JW” 

It’s the clearest he’s ever been about this. The most he’s ever said about it to Mycroft, too. The reply comes in less than a minute. 

“That does not mean that I should be involved, John. MH.” 

Doesn’t it? John’s not sure what to say. ‘But I want you?’ He could want someone else, too, if he tried. ‘But it makes sense?’ For all the reasons it does, it also doesn’t. 

Mycroft has mentioned nothing but the negatives - it’s too complicated, they are risking too much. It’s all true. But what if it actually would work? “What if it’s worth it? JW” 

John waits, holding his phone in his hand, but Mycroft doesn’t reply. 

John can imagine Mycroft in his stately library, sitting by the glow of the fire. Probably considering his question carefully and working through replies, because Mycroft never says anything without thinking it through. And apparently, this question deserves thought. 

It makes John feel better in a way. At least Mycroft doesn’t have all the answers, either. 

John thinks about it, too. Actually, the arousal he felt at Mycroft’s is coming back the more he does consider it. It would be good, between them. John can even feel it when they’re standing close together and not saying anything - they don’t need to, it’s just there. 

The reply doesn’t come, so after another ten minutes John’s had it with his room and goes downstairs again. Sherlock is looking at his experiment as if nothing happened. In the zone, probably. John says, “Taking a shower.”

“Hm.” Sherlock peers into his microscope while simultaneously writing something down under the column ‘Day three.’

John takes a new set of pyjamas from the wardrobe and walks into the bathroom. He takes his clothes off, then turns the water on, and steps in. It rains down on his shoulders, hot, soothing his tense muscles. 

John thinks of what could have happened tonight. The image is clear in his mind - Mycroft’s eyes shining as they look at him. The tilt of Mycroft’s mouth as he jokes. The drag of Mycroft’s gaze all the way from John’s face to his… Mycroft was _looking_ , John is sure of it. 

John collects some shower gel on his hand and puts it around his cock like that. It’s slippery, just right for a quick wank. He makes a loose fist and imagines it’s Mycroft doing it. Jacking him off. 

Sherlock probably knows what he’s doing right now if he’s listening, but John doesn’t feel even remotely guilty about that anymore. He has to get some somehow, and it’s _all fine_ , right? John remembers.

He speeds up his hand. Part of John wants Sherlock to hear this, the frantic sounds of his hand on his cock, and know it’s not for him. Get angry about it, maybe. 

Does he want Sherlock to come in and claim his place here? Or offer to suck him off, that would do it. John’s never had a blowjob from Sherlock. He’d want it - to use that mouth for something else for once. 

John squeezes himself. He’s almost there. He would _show_ him. Shut him up. Make Sherlock swallow it all down and like it, too. John shudders, and his come stripes the bath. It drips from his hand and spreads with the water as he gives it a last couple of strokes. 

He washes off. 

That was fucking sad, probably. 

John walks out of the bathroom, freshly dressed again, his hair towelled, and Sherlock is still looking at the damn Petri dishes. 

Even if he did hear, Sherlock doesn’t care. 

Sherlock would probably say what he said about Mycroft earlier. ‘It’s just hormones,’ or ‘it’s just a biological function.’ 

John takes his phone again, goes to bed, and instead of saying what he’d want to, something like ‘Why does it all need to be so fucking complicated?’ John tells Mycroft, “Good night. JW” 

Sherlock carefully opens the bedroom door later, comes close, and then says, “You’re still awake.”

“Yeah.” John kept his phone by his pillow, but Mycroft still hasn’t replied. He’s pretty sure it’s for the best. 

‘For the best’ is annoying as hell though. 

“Usually you fall asleep after masturbating.” 

Great, so Sherlock did notice. John suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, it’s not a sleeping pill.”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock says that as if it’s an interesting fact he learned, not something he’s annoyed about. Like it doesn’t bother him in the least what John just imagined while jerking off in the shower. And Sherlock isn’t bothered. Maybe it’s perfect in his mind, John getting himself off so no one else has to bother to touch him. Seeing how it’s such a _chore_. 

John lays awake part of the night thinking about it. It’s probably true what Sherlock said, that he’ll stay if he can have someone else. He’ll feel better, probably, right? 

John’s not that convinced.

 

-

 

Mycroft comes by the next day.

John is doing the washing up, and Sherlock is wiping Violet’s face with a wet cloth after a rather unfortunate plate-over-her-head incident. Mycroft meets his gaze when he walks in. “Hello, John. Sherlock.” Mycroft looks at Violet and asks, “What happened here?”

“Spaghetti sauce,” Sherlock says darkly. 

“Psa’etti!” Violet confirms, much more enthusiastic about the general concept. “Dirty, I’m _all dirty now_.” 

“Yes, I can see that.” Mycroft stands near the counter for a moment, waiting for Sherlock to finish. 

John rinses off some plates and tries not to think too much. Part of him wants to just grab Mycroft and snog him again right here in the kitchen, in full view of Sherlock. Maybe _then_ Sherlock would shout. Curse, hit something. Maybe Mycroft would go for it. 

Probably not. 

Sherlock says to Mycroft, “Five months tomorrow.” 

John quickly counts in his head, and yeah, Sherlock’s right - Mycroft’s five months pregnant now. 

“The baby’s the size of an apple.” Sherlock sounds pleased about that. 

Violet says, “No baby apple, I don’t _want_ to eat apple! No!” 

Which makes Mycroft’s face pull briefly. “Don’t give her ideas of cannibalising her brother, please.” He adds, “That will come after he’s born, I’m sure.” 

Sherlock snorts. “Probably.” 

John’s a bit surprised to hear Mycroft make a joke. He looks at Mycroft and sees nothing but careful amusement directed at Sherlock. 

Mycroft’s trying here - clearly. 

John should do the same, he thinks. 

_Man up._

 

 

 

 

 


	74. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock watches John closely. He notices some glances between John and Mycroft, but that’s it. They don’t touch, but they seem mostly comfortable around each other. _Fond._

John doesn’t have that slightly over-the-top edge when he thinks he will have sex soon anymore. Mycroft said no.

Sherlock isn’t sure how he feels about it. 

He goes by the morgue. Molly isn’t at work yet, but she will be soon, so Sherlock sneaks past the office where the current medical examiner is updating his files, logs on at a terminal using Molly’s password, and starts scanning autopsy reports. There has to be something somewhere. A nice murder to solve. 

He could use a distraction. 

When Molly arrives twenty minutes later, Sherlock doesn’t actually hear her. He’s in the middle of reading the annoyingly vague description of a corpse of an elderly man after a bludgeoning, when he hears her soft inhale. “Sherlock! I heard, I’m so sorry about your mum.”

Sherlock wonders what she is talking about. And then, when he identifies the sharp angle of pain, he immediately pushes it away. “I’m fine. As opposed to Mr. Helves.” 

“Helves?” Molly walks up to the computer.

“Bludgeoning, heavy object, never retrieved.” 

“I thought it was a statue.” 

“Hm, you would be wrong.” Sherlock grins. The man used to be a shoemaker - it’s obvious from his fingers. Sherlock texts John, “Come help me find a murder weapon? SH” And then tells Molly, “Show me.” 

The body is a fascinating pile of open wounds and bruising. Sherlock circles the table to see every angle.

“So you’re doing okay, then?”

Sherlock frowns - he can’t seem to find the exact bruising patterns that should be there. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because your mum… I’m sorry.” 

Sherlock glances up. Now Molly mentioned it, he can feel the edge of it again. Suppressing it is a reflex, but one that irritates and distracts him.

“It’s just that, you did like her, right? I mean, I’ve heard you talk about her before, and then when you were dead you told them, so it seems like you’ll… miss her?” 

_Will he?_ Sherlock is unsure.

Molly leans against the edge of the metal autopsy table. “My dad died when I was fifteen. It was really horrible, you know?” She pauses. “He never thought I could be a doctor.” Then she laughs, awkwardly. “I wish he could see me now.” 

Old-fashioned father she looked up to, but raised by a weak mother figure - Sherlock adds it to his mental map of Molly Hooper, then focuses on the corpse again. Why are there no edges on the wounds?

But Molly still seems concerned. “Are you and John doing okay?”

Sherlock inspects Mr. Helves’ fingers. Traces of oil, interesting. He reframes his earlier theory. “He wants sex with Mycroft.”

“...Oh?” Molly sounds flustered. “We kind of thought... with the baby and all that, we were wondering if... um.” 

Sherlock tries to ignore Molly’s shock. “Age?” He uses his magnifying glass to examine the bruise pattern.

Molly checks her chart. “Seventy-two?”

Sherlock’s phone buzzes and he reads it. “Sure, I’ll take the afternoon off? JW” 

Now that John is leaving the surgery, he doesn’t care much about his work hours and it’s entirely convenient. Sherlock grins and texts him the address. It’s above a pub. They can investigate there first, John is likely to enjoy getting a pint. And Sherlock has been trying to make it more pleasant for John again. John might smile at it, anyway. 

Sherlock faces Molly. He’s deduced this for a while now, so he might as well tell her. “Lestrade is going to propose soon. Act surprised.” 

She startles, then smiles. “ _Really?_ You think so?”

Sherlock nods. It’s nice to see her joy. “Positive.” 

She is still smiling widely as he walks out. 

 

-

 

Sherlock texts Mrs. Hudson on the way there. She’s currently making cupcakes with Violet. Sherlock can’t see Violet being any actual help, but Mrs. Hudson tends to do a lot of baking with her. It is sentimental? If so, maybe John would like to do that some time, too? Sherlock isn’t certain. 

John is already waiting by the pub when he arrives. Sherlock offers, “Pint first?”

And predictably, John grins at him. “Wouldn’t mind a quick drink, no.” 

As they walk inside, there’s a trail of customers hurrying out. Sherlock goes in first, and he is hit with a wave of _sweet, soft, so good he can barely breathe through it..._ omega. 

It’s a young male server. He is flushed. He looks at them pleadingly. “We’re closing, I’m…” He swallows. “I’m…” His eyes run all over Sherlock, and he steps closer. A lot closer. “Who _are_ you?”

Sherlock can’t find the words to respond. He can feel John’s hand on his back, but he is rooted to the spot. The omega looks at him with bright red lips, a flush on his cheeks, and Sherlock wants to turn him around and… 

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John sounds annoyed, as if he’s been repeating his name. He’s pulling his arm now. 

Sherlock turns, dazed, and looks at him. “John?”

John shakes his head at the omega, and there’s a low, angry pitch to his voice as he says, “I’m sorry, mate, but it’s not gonna happen.” 

John drags him away, but Sherlock can barely feel it. He feels strong, _grand_ , he could pull away from John’s grip without even trying much, he could go back and take that omega, claim him, he could…

John leads him across the street, then says, “Breathe.” 

Sherlock does. He feels nauseous. His entire body is shaking. 

“Right, we’re going home. Can you handle a cab?” 

Sherlock isn’t sure. John waves one down anyway and asks the driver, “You a beta?”

The woman nods. She eyes Sherlock as he gratefully sinks onto the back seat. “He’s going into a heat?” 

Sherlock doesn’t have heats anymore. The last one was after bonding with Mycroft for the first time, when Mycroft was pregnant with Violet, over two years ago. He can always push them down now, but for some idiotic reason that one omega did something. Sherlock can feel it thrumming in waves. 

John replies for him. “Apparently.” He still seems angry.

Sherlock feels a flash of guilt. _No John, no, this isn’t about you, I can’t…_

The streets pass by in a haze. Sherlock tries to get into his mind palace, but it’s as if his brain skirts away from it. Whenever he tries, it fades out. He’s sweating - it prickles against his skin. 

His penis is hard and thick between his legs already, straining his trousers. Sherlock can see John look at it and swallow.

Sherlock wants nothing more than to bury his nose in John’s neck and inhale, let it calm him, but he’s not sure it would. Instead, he presses his nails into his palms as hard as he can. 

They arrive, and Sherlock walks up to 221B feeling faintly sick. He doesn’t _want_ this. Mrs. Hudson is in the hall, holding Violet, but Sherlock ignores her. 

He’s too aggressive to be around Violet now. Too dangerous. 

He can hear John ask Mrs. Hudson to stay downstairs. Sherlock walks into his room, but leaves the door open. John will want to butt in. Sherlock falls down on the bed, and John does appear in the doorway, and asks, “What do you want to do?” 

The sound of his voice alone is enough to curl over Sherlock’s spine and arouse him even further. “Leave me alone.” 

John sighs. “...All right.” He closes the door. 

He hurt John by saying that, Sherlock knows. He does nothing but hurt John. It was a great day, they were happy, they were going to work a case, and now… 

Sherlock curls onto his side and rolls his body around the stiff, throbbing thing he never wanted. Almost without meaning to, he tightens his thigh muscles, and releases them. Tightens, and releases. 

He makes his mind recite elements. He would think of the case, but he can’t focus enough for that now. All he needs is repetition, something to hold onto, something to separate the minutes and seconds into manageable bursts. 

He fists the sheets, closes his eyes as tightly as he can, and tenses every muscle in his body as he orgasms.

It’s not enough. 

 

-

 

There’s a soft knock on the door. Sherlock hears it, but the sound leaves him unchanged - it feels like a thing that happened to him once. He does not know whether there is any passage of time between that and the door opening, but the dip in the mattress is so sudden that Sherlock nearly shouts. 

The scent makes his stomach uncurl slowly. It’s Mycroft. 

Mycroft seems cautious. Unwilling to disturb him, but his sheer presence is a disturbance beyond what he could possibly imagine right now. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock knows he reeks. He’s soaked with sweat so much that his hair sticks to his forehead. He can see Mycroft from the corner of his eye. He stays silent.

Mycroft breathes out slowly. He hesitates, then offers, “You can bond, if you wish.” 

Sherlock can’t give in to that. He has power in every sense of the word right now. He could do something unimaginable to Mycroft and enjoy it more than he has ever enjoyed anything. 

He doesn’t move a muscle. 

There is a sigh. Then Mycroft rises, leaves the bed, and Sherlock is painfully aware of the loss of his scent. 

There’s a sound by the door. John’s voice says, “How is he?” 

“ _John._ ” Sherlock pushes the word out between his lips. 

“Yes?” John comes closer. “I’m here, what is it?” 

Sherlock lifts his head, and the movement is enough to make him feel a flash of sharp-hot desire. His penis is sticking to the fabric of his punishingly tight trousers, his spilled come has dried up and _still_ the feeling is appealing. Sherlock wants to grind himself on the bed. Or into John, that would be even better. 

John says, “You should bond, it’ll remind your body that he’s already pregnant and you don’t need a heat.” 

Sherlock almost laughs - or cries. He’s not sure. If John would know what he’d do to either of them right now, he’d never speak to him again. If Mycroft did, he’d never let him bond again. Sherlock’s erection is swollen at the promise of violence alone. He wants to _own_ them both. In whatever way he can. 

“You should do it.” John sounds sure. 

Sherlock looks at Mycroft, and silently begs him to realise. He says, fighting the words, his voice a low rumble, “I can’t _control_ it.” 

John glances at Mycroft. 

Mycroft says, “He is right, Sherlock. Bonding now will likely end your heat.” He is too close. Sherlock can feel Mycroft’s presence radiate. It’s dangerous. 

John comes closer to them both, looks at him, and says, “If you do anything wrong _at all_ , I’ll stop you. I promise.” John seems confident. Like a soldier, and Sherlock wants to bend him over even more at the sight of it. 

Mycroft sits down on the bed again, and the movement of the mattress makes Sherlock feel unhinged. He can hear a high whimper that he realises is his own. But still he doesn’t move. 

Mycroft says, quietly, “You have my permission, Sherlock.” 

The words are hazy, and all that matters is the nearness of him. Sherlock _needs_ this, something, anything, the both of them... 

Sherlock tries to keep his muscles under control, but he can’t hold himself back any longer. He lunges to Mycroft’s neck. He buries his face there, bites down, and the feeling is indescribable, like lighting running over his senses. His whole body shakes and erupts, his penis convulses in his trousers, soaking the fabric spurt after spurt. Sherlock sniffs Mycroft’s scent and bites him, nuzzles his neck, again and again.

With every breath in, it becomes easier. 

He can hear the urgent thudding of his heartbeat. He becomes aware that he has his arms wrapped around Mycroft’s shoulders, so tightly that it hurts, and as soon as he realises that, he can move away. 

He looks up. 

Mycroft’s neck is bright red, but he didn’t actually break the skin. There is no blood. There is a dark spot on Mycroft’s suit that Sherlock tries not to see. John is right there on the bed next to them, looking concerned, but not appalled. 

Mycroft glances back at him with a strange sense of shame. He’s blushing, _clearly_ aroused. 

Sherlock feels a stab of panic. What did he do? Why did they let him?! 

John reaches out, and - _oh the touch!_ \- takes his hand. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” John sounds calm. “All right? You’re fine, you did well.” 

Sherlock can feel his body slowly return through the haze of bonding. He’s still feeling the hot chills of arousal, but it’s manageable. It doesn’t steer all of him - he can even mostly ignore it. He holds on to John’s hand. 

Mycroft asks him, “Do you feel more yourself, now?”

It’s a strange sensation. Sherlock has always, always endured the terror of his heats alone. With drugs, when he could find them. He has never had it end like this. “Yes.” 

Mycroft nods at him. “Well.” He looks supremely uncomfortable as he pushes himself up from the low bed, and Sherlock is aware of him leaving his side, but it doesn’t hurt him any longer. “I have work to do. And Violet needs her dinner.” It’s obviously an excuse so he can leave and privately deal with what this did to his body. Sherlock can see the lie, but he does not point it out. 

Mycroft looks back with a last glance towards the both of them, then closes the door behind him. 

John’s eyes follow Mycroft out as well, but he stays. John is responding to his heat, too. Sherlock can see it in the line of his shoulders and the way he licks his lips. 

John lets go of his hand. He says, “I’ll make dinner, too. Get up in a bit, if you can?”

Sherlock does. He ignores the after-shocks and gets off the bed. He has to walk partially bent over, but he makes it to the bathroom. He gets out of his ruined trousers and pants. He showers, mostly ignoring his still swollen penis. 

He dresses in loose pyjamas, then sits across from John in their kitchen for a quickly prepared plate of pasta. He feels a deep exhaustion now, but a deep gratitude as well. “Thank you, John.” Sherlock has rarely meant it more. John saved him from days of torture. 

Mycroft did, too. 

John smiles weakly across the table, obviously still uncomfortably aroused by the excess of hormones, but keeping himself in check. “Sure.” He looks him over. “You feeling okay now?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock is. He actually is. 

It feels like a small miracle.

 

 

 

 

 


	75. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft thinks about biology. 

He never truly understood its power. Oh, he had some hormone-fuelled dalliances in his youth, certainly. He experienced heats, some so intense that it felt as if he would lose his entire being in the moment of desire, in the warm flush of bodies. He certainly enjoyed it at the time. But his mind was always his more precious commodity. 

It simply took up too much time, being dependent on a hormonal cycle. He could not afford the luxury of taking days off every couple of months to mindlessly sate his body, not when there was work to be done. And once he was used to living with the suppressants, he never truly missed it. He could still enjoy sex, but even that tapered off throughout the years. There were simply other things that were more pressing and more worthy of his time. 

Mycroft watched Sherlock struggle with his own heats, and Mycroft had thought that it was the emotion of it that overwhelmed Sherlock. Perhaps the aggression of being an alpha made him feel out of control and divorced from his mind. Mycroft had always sympathised with that to a certain extent. But he had never seen the truth of it. Not in Sherlock’s negative response, or in the enormous importance that society places on it, those moments when one passively subjects himself to natural instinct. 

Even bonding with Sherlock, as deeply as it affected Mycroft that first time, served a purpose. The regular bursts of comfort since have been an unexpected physical pleasure, yes, but if Mycroft had to choose, he would say the bond with Sherlock is much more important because it has brought them closer on other levels. It is hard to separate the two. Mycroft is aware that their natural animosity is now somewhat tempered by mutual dependence. 

But he never truly understood the strength of their bond until he stood in Sherlock’s bedroom and saw him go through a heat. Mycroft realised what Sherlock’s objection to bonding was. He could see it in his face - Sherlock thought he would lose control and try to rape him. 

Mycroft feels a chill run over him, not because he truly believes it, but to know that Sherlock in that moment cared so deeply that he would still not relieve his own pain for fear of harming him. 

John was there to help, and the bonding was indeed much more intense than usual - Sherlock grabbed him in a death grip, harshly rutted against his back and held him in his shaking, sweating arms for much longer than Mycroft felt at ease with, especially considering his own body’s instant reaction. 

But it was merely an inconvenience, a small sacrifice. 

Mycroft studiously ignored the shape of Sherlock’s arousal and the tell-tale smell. He ignored John as well, who was clearly more than intrigued by watching them. He managed the discomfort of it. 

And then when it was over, when he could see Sherlock resurface, whole again, Mycroft felt nothing but gratitude for the fact that he could do this, be here for Sherlock. 

How much would he have sacrificed for the knowledge that he could ease Sherlock’s worst fear like this when they were younger? Especially at only a minor cost to himself, as well. 

It was a gift. 

Mycroft went home feeling all the base sensations of arousal, but also a curious victory over a past that neither Sherlock or he like to allude to. All the times he tried to understand Sherlock’s addiction, to regulate it, to prescribe and argue and shame. 

Mycroft never imagined that he would be able to bodily soothe him.

It underscores what is happening with John, as well. 

Mycroft kept John’s text, and looked at it often. _What if it’s worth it?_

Mycroft weighed it in his mind, but he did not know the answer until sitting there, on Sherlock’s bed, helping him through a heat that Sherlock never wished to have. 

_Biology._ If John’s body is responding to the child Mycroft is carrying, it is no more John’s fault than it is anyone else’s. 

Perhaps Sherlock understood that so easily because he himself knows the effects of it only too well. Perhaps that is why Sherlock would give his permission, because he does not want this suffering for anyone else. 

Mycroft remembers Sherlock holding Violet for the first time, how it seemed to be so very essential to him. 

Is that not what Mycroft wants for John, too? 

For their child. And, yes, in a selfish way, Mycroft would like to be seen like that himself, even for just a short moment. Even if it is just to bridge these months of hormones. The one and only time this could happen. 

Mycroft texts John that evening, “How is Sherlock? MH” 

John says, “Much better than after his other heat. He seems to have stabilised. Thanks for doing that. I know it wasn’t easy. JW” 

Mycroft feels relieved. “I am glad he is doing well. MH” He does not allow himself to send more, or suggest anything to John, but it feels clearer, now. 

Something has shifted.

 

-

 

It’s close to evening the day after Sherlock’s heat, and Mycroft is in a Diogenes Club reading room, taking a brief moment to reply to some correspondence before going home, when there is a knock on the door. 

Xavier enters, and in his wake, John. 

“John?” Mycroft is always glad to see him, although he had not expected it. “Is Sherlock all right?”

“Yes, yeah, fine.” John looks at him. “I just...” He stops, and waits for Xavier to leave them. 

There’s a small pause, and it lies between them. Mycroft can easily see half a dozen tells – nerves, John steadied himself before walking in here, but he came with a purpose. 

This has to do with Sherlock’s heat after all, Mycroft assumes. It was somewhat tortuous to sit that close to John and to be aware that they were both very aroused. But Mycroft did not exactly mind it, seeing John there. Smelling him there, too. It seems that feeling might have been mutual. 

John says, “Look, I don’t want to push, but…”

Mycroft can feel himself say, “I believe it would only be a short term solution.” 

John stills noticeably.

Mycroft faces him. Sexual desire is a strong motivator, he is willing to concede. As is the idea that this might only be possible now he is still pregnant. The sheer selfishness of it is staggering, of course. 

John licks his lips. He seems entirely ready. “You’re serious?”

Mycroft looks at him, and his heart pounds. How odd, that he would be so susceptible to the charm of this idea. He swallows. “If you still wish to.” 

“ _Yes._ ” John’s eyes travel over him. 

Mycroft stands and, with a look at John, goes to locks the door.

He returns, John’s hand finds his neck, and John pulls him down and kisses him. 

Mycroft feels as if it takes hold of all of him at once. John’s lips on his are a bright rush of air. John’s hands roam over his clothes, John’s fingers touch his crotch, and he immediately _aches_. 

John tries to unbutton his fly. Mycroft helps, briefly aware that he is wearing a pregnancy undershirt that spans his belly and that it is hardly attractive. John roughly pulls the fabric up, his pants down, and then has a hand on him. 

Mycroft can only breathe against John’s lips. They are going so very fast, but he cannot deny that he wants this. John’s hand travels the base of his penis, feeling his balls, learning the shape of him, and Mycroft is stunned by how intimate it feels to have John’s hand between his legs, and John’s face so close. It has the embarrassing effect of making his erection harden and notably twitch. _Oh John, oh..._

He knows his breathing must be giving away his shock at how very much he enjoys this, as John says, close to his ear, “You like that?”

Mycroft has to temper himself before he can reply, afraid that the raw pleasure of this might be too clear in his voice. “Yes.” 

John says, “You know what I wanted to do, watching you yesterday?”

Mycroft swallows. The pads of John’s fingers run an errant path over his erection now, and it is entirely distracting. So are John’s lips, close to his. He manages, “I would be open to suggestions if you wish to make any.”

John gets down on his knees in front of him. 

The visual is so strong that it takes Mycroft a moment to realise what the source of the warm breath by his erection is.

It curls his toes. 

John’s wish is to _take him into his mouth_. Mycroft had imagined that John would want to breach him, as most presume to do with an omega. But John’s hand is on his thigh, and John’s mouth takes him in, sucking lightly. 

John hums, “Mm...” 

Mycroft immediately endeavours to remember the details of this - John’s lips, the soft huffs of his breath. He is aware that he is deeply aroused by the mere idea of John there. _Servicing_ him. Mycroft’s legs feel unsteady. All of him does. 

John increases the pace, and Mycroft can clearly feel the wetness slicking his buttocks. John must be able to smell it. John moves in more, and for a moment, Mycroft has no choice but to pull back from John’s mouth because it is too much.

John leans back enough to look at him. “Okay?”

John uses his hand on him instead, swipes his thumb over the head, and Mycroft shivers in a long arch. He nearly cries out. He says, with a shudder, “My apologies, I am already close to….” 

He should _not_ be, but he feels entirely bare. A wanton thing, like this, standing upright in a Diogenes Club reading room, pregnant, only recently bonded, and with John at his feet. 

John takes him into his mouth again, and the heat of it is devastating. John does not hold back, he sucks hard, and Mycroft reaches the edge, his whole body alight as he can feel himself spill in John’s mouth. “Ah!” 

John swallows it down, then lingers there for a moment before he sits back slowly. His eyes are bright as he looks up at him. “Good?” 

Mycroft has rarely allowed his control to slip so quickly. John only touched him for a few minutes, and he is stunned at his body’s response. Much like yesterday after the bonding, his body did not only react to this but overreacted. He feels as if he has fallen, burst, come undone with the barest minimum of touches. He can only reply honestly. “It was sublime, John.”

John smiles widely at that. “ _Sublime_ , wow.” He groans a bit as he gets back to his feet. “Murder on the knees, though.” But he does not seem displeased in the least. 

Mycroft attempts to focus - he tries to pull away from the sensations still dancing over his body, the unfamiliar echoes of touch - and asks, “Would you allow me to return the favour?”

John grins. “I was counting on that, pretty much.”

He seems so comfortable like this. Joyful, at the thought. Mycroft, however, is not certain whether he can kneel on the ground as easily as John did. 

He looks behind him, and John suggests, “Sit down?” 

Mycroft does, he lowers himself down on the leather-clad settee, feeling indecent with his trousers still around his knees, but he did not think to put his clothes back in order. His relative inexperience is showing, Mycroft thinks. He allowed John to lead him on this. 

Not that John seems to mind. John opens his trousers, lowers his pants, and Mycroft can smell him clearly already. It is the scent he knows from John’s sheets. From John’s occasional arousal around him, as well. It is as decadent as it is deeply familiar, and he wishes to disappear into it. John steps closer until his groin is right at Mycroft’s mouth. 

Mycroft smells the musk, he puts his nose right by John’s pubic hair, and opens his mouth so he can inhale it. He puts his lips near the soft, heated skin and runs them over the curve of John’s cock to the tip. As he can remember, Mycroft has never been overly fond of doing this, but he wants to taste John with a fierceness that surprises him. He licks John’s glans, savouring the flavour and the smooth hard skin there. He tongues the small slit, silently asking for more. 

John’s breathing is ragged. 

Mycroft makes his mouth loose and takes him in, just the tip, and rolls his tongue around. John’s hand settles on his shoulder, and Mycroft notes the tremble in John’s upper legs. He would like to take his time and endlessly linger, but John’s cock jumps up heavily, his balls are drawn, and John makes a sound, “ _Hn!_ ” 

John’s hips are straining, wishing to get closer to him. 

It seems he needs this as much as Mycroft did. So Mycroft takes him deep into his mouth, and moves back and forth in a simple rhythm. John follows him. John thrusts lightly, then says under his breath, “Jesus Christ that’s good.” 

Is it? John’s praise is egging Mycroft on as well. Smell and taste blur into one sensation, the spit drips from his chin, but still he continues to move. He wishes to give this to John, and in a sudden metallic burst he can taste John’s come on his tongue, the smoothness spreading in his mouth. 

Mycroft swallows it down, feeling a brief moment of revulsion – he never did like swallowing – and then slowly leaves John. He takes his handkerchief and wipes his lips and chin before facing John again. 

“ _God_ ,” John says, with feeling. 

John’s cock is red and still fully hard, and Mycroft can imagine it pressing inside of him with a longing that surprises him. 

“Yes,” he says automatically, his voice somewhat hoarse. Then he eyes John and adds, “ _Quite._ ” 

John laughs. Mycroft is aware his face must be a state. He can feel the heat of his own blush. His lips feel raw and overly stretched, but he allows himself to smile back, and briefly enjoys the warmth he feels burning in his chest. _John._

Then Mycroft pushes himself up out of the chair, a movement that is getting more difficult as his stomach grows in circumference. John reaches out to help him, but Mycroft ignores the gesture, not certain whether he finds it touching or annoying. “I am fine, thank you.” 

He pulls his pants up. He smoothes his undershirt down over his stomach and buttons his trousers over it, then his waistcoat. John is zipping himself up as well. They need to go to Baker Street. In fact - Mycroft glances at the clock by the mantelpiece - it is already later than he told Sherlock he would arrive. 

Mycroft feels a sense of discomfort now, some uneasiness at what they’ve just done. He says, “I can give you a ride home?” 

“Yeah, that’d be great.” John seems far less hesitant than Mycroft feels. Not as if every moment of this is unguarded and dangerous, pulling both of them somewhere that will likely hurt them or - more likely - hurt Sherlock.

This might have been an enormous mistake, an indulgence that will ruin all they have built together. It may be the most terrible out of all the acts Mycroft has ever committed. 

He cannot be certain.

 

 

 

 

 


	76. (John)

 

 

John sits in the back of the car, next to Mycroft.

Violet’s car seat is at his side and has a discarded cardboard book in it, something about a circus. The window has fogged up a little. 

John can still feel the weight of Mycroft’s cock on his tongue. He can still taste him, too. Smell him in the back of his nose. 

John’s not sure if this is one of those times where he would be better off not looking at Mycroft, or whether they should talk about it. He’s had enough awkward moments with Sherlock that he doesn’t want to go there at all. But this is something altogether different. The difference between having sex with Sherlock and this is immense. Mycroft _wanted_ this. Badly, deeply - John could feel it. 

He had responded himself, too, and not just because someone was sucking him off, it was more than that. It wasn’t just because he had to sit through that bonding yesterday, either - Jesus, he hasn’t been that hard in ages. They all had been. 

No, tonight Mycroft’s eyes on him were heated. His lips careful, figuring out what he wanted, what he liked. It had the tenseness of a first time, sure, but John can feel it wave through him still. It was _right_. More than hot, more than worth it, more than the shift of his hips and a quick release like he’s used to. 

It was warm. _Loving._

Mycroft is looking out the window with a frown. John briefly wonders what it would be like if he were to try and kiss him now, but Mycroft’s not going to want that, probably. It’s all well and good to do that when they’re alone, when no one can see what John himself can barely believe - how vulnerable he looked. 

And that’s exactly why it can break, now. If he says the wrong thing, John thinks Mycroft will blow up. Anger, after that, seems like it would be expected. Like they had no right to be that close. For it to go that well. 

John reaches out his hand and touches the side of Mycroft’s fingers. Mycroft’s head turns around sharply, and he stares at him. 

John says, “Violet said ‘penguin’ today. Sherlock texted me.” 

Mycroft’s face briefly seems unsure, as if he is trying to find some ulterior motive as to why he’d be talking about penguins. But yeah, John’s _trying_ here. “She did?” 

John leaves his hand close enough to Mycroft’s that it brushes his skin almost accidentally as the car moves. “It’s that story about the two male penguins, Molly gave it to us as a present. It’s a bit too complicated for her but she likes it.” 

Mycroft doesn’t pull his hand away. “It would be more useful if she was as willing to name what she wants to eat other than ‘no’. She can be very picky.” 

John shrugs. “That’s kids, I think.” He adds, “She gets that from Sherlock.”

Mycroft moves his hand, but agrees. “Sherlock was entirely too thin throughout most of his childhood.” 

“Hmm, he’s still picky.” 

They talk about Violet’s hatred of peas. How she only eats carrots when they’re mashed. About how Sherlock didn’t eat anything else than applesauce for three months straight when he was two, and it had to be from a particular bowl. John even laughs as Mycroft says that, forgetting for a moment what just happened. 

But when they get out of the car, it’s awkward again immediately. There’s no getting away from it, is there? Not anymore. They did it and now it’s time to face the music. 

John takes the stairs first. Mycroft comes up behind him, and John can feel how uneasy he is. 

John opens the door and meets Sherlock’s eyes. He’s on the sofa with Violet in his arms. “Hi.”

Sherlock glances at them, but says nothing. John imagined Sherlock immediately jumping up and accusing them both, but it doesn’t happen. Violet isn’t playing so much as nagging while holding a toy. She sounds tired. Mycroft looks between them, takes Violet and leaves impressively quickly. It’s obvious from his look that he expects this to go badly. 

John waits. He can hear Mycroft go down the stairs. He takes his jacket off and hangs it up. 

And then sits on the sofa, next to Sherlock. John eyes him. “Do you want to know?” 

Sherlock looks him over. Then says, very precisely, “No.” 

“That’s it? Just no?” At least there’s a sliver of anger there. Sherlock isn’t fully happy. At least it isn’t ‘oh I’m so glad you’re sleeping with my brother, well done, John.’ 

“What do you want me to say?”

 _That you’re jealous. That you love me more. That…_ “I don’t know.” John eyes him. Does he want Sherlock to fight? Why? Is that going to help anything, or just make him feel less guilty for a bit? “I really don’t know, Sherlock.” He sighs. 

Sherlock turns away, obviously going into his mind palace for god knows how long. 

But no. “No, you don’t get to do that.” 

Sherlock glances back, surprised. 

“No, we need to talk about it.” John’s sure of that much at least. “Because if we don’t, I’ll do it again. I’ll sleep with him again. But I am _not_ breaking - ” John waves his hand between them, “- _this_ , between us for it. I don’t want that, I’m not fucking it up, so talk. Now.” 

Sherlock scans him. He seems unsure. 

John asks, “What do you want?” Has he ever asked Sherlock like this? John isn’t sure, all of a sudden, of what the answer would be. “If you’re being selfish, if this is just about you, then what do you want me to do right now?”

Sherlock frowns. “It’s not just me.” 

“No.”

“So it’s a useless question, John.” Sherlock’s eyes settle on his hands, he’s looking at them tangle and untangle. But he’s talking, at least. 

John pushes. “Do you seriously want me to keep on doing this with Mycroft? He’s your brother, never mind the fact that he’s your bonded. Anyone,” John laughs an awkward breath and oh - it’s not funny, is it, not even remotely - “anyone would be angry at that.” _Anyone but you._ Unless. John looks at him. _Unless it’s better that it’s Mycroft._ “Or is it…”

Sherlock faces him. “Be with him.”

Right. John needs to have an open mind here and try to get whatever Sherlock’s saying, no matter how crazy it sounds. Sherlock wants him to do this so he’ll stay, John remembers that argument. But does Sherlock want this for Mycroft as well? John remembers Mycroft bonding with him, giving him that, it seemed... Well, they’re close, aren’t they? The kids, too, it all makes sense in some oddly logical way, John does get that. 

“Just him.” 

What? John looks up. 

Sherlock seems hesitant. “Don’t have sex with anyone else again.” 

“I can… yeah, I can do that.” Easily. John eyes him. Is that it? “No one else.” 

Sherlock nods. 

“All right.” John sits back and thinks it over for a bit. 

Sherlock goes to collect his laptop from the top of the fridge just to have something to do, John thinks. So John, on impulse, gets up, too. He’s not sure he could ever get away with this with anyone else, but hell, he wants to. He stands close to Sherlock, puts a hand on his side – Sherlock stills, but doesn’t move away – and says, “I love you more. Than I do him. You know that, right?”

John half-expects a rude rebuttal, because yeah, what is he even doing, saying that _now?_

But Sherlock glances back. He doesn’t reply. 

John lets it be. 

 

-

 

John takes his phone to the kitchen when he’s rummaging there under the guise of making dinner and texts Mycroft, “Promised Sherlock it’s just the both of you. No one else.” John hesitates. He adds, “Thought you should know. JW” and sends it. 

It’s pretty presumptuous - Mycroft said it would only be a short term thing. But John feels… relief. Yeah, that’s it, he’s _relieved_ that there’s a limit somewhere. That Sherlock finally put down a rule about something, that he’s drawing lines. It means that it actually matters who John fucks. That it finally isn’t all the same to Sherlock. 

John cooks dinner. His mind isn’t in it, but Sherlock never seems to particularly mind what he makes anyway, and by the time Sherlock actually comes to sit at the table - miracles, and all that - John feels strangely good about it all. Great, even. He asks, “Want to have some wine with that?” 

They have a bottle somewhere. John eventually finds it stashed under a pile of gun magazines and a cheese grater. 

John opens it, and Sherlock accepts a glass, empties it in a couple of swallows, and says, “You’re happy.” It doesn’t sound so much like an insult as a statement.

So John - and yes, he’s done trying to handle this at all like a normal person - says, “Yeah well, I got off today and you’re still talking to me, I’m counting that as a win.” 

Sherlock smiles, very briefly. 

John pours him more wine. 

They’re both more than tipsy by the time the second bottle is empty between them on the living room table. Their legs are tangling and bumping as John - between bubbling laughter - tells Sherlock about a patient who came in with ‘an itch’ and expected him to do a bit more than scratch it. 

Sherlock frowns, looking adorably annoyed that someone would ever _do_ that, and it makes John laugh even more. 

Sherlock tells him about the time he had an omega stalker who followed him to crime scenes and how he didn’t realise what she wanted until she showed up fully naked, and Lestrade had to put her in jail for the night. 

John can’t believe he’s never heard that story. Sherlock admits, “Lestrade dated her after.” 

They laugh about that together. 

John checks his phone while Sherlock’s in the bathroom. One message, from Mycroft. “How is he? MH” 

John types back, a little clumsily. “Good right now, I think. Surprisingly. JW” Who knows what it’ll be later, but whatever this is right now, John’s unwilling to let it go. 

They do fall silent, but when they go to bed, it’s together. John takes Sherlock’s hand and presses a kiss on it. This. _This_ is what he loves, and wants, and needs. 

Sherlock doesn’t talk about it, but John thinks he can feel him settle, somehow. Relax and lean a little closer. 

And that’s enough.

 

 

 

 

 


	77. (Sherlock)

 

 

It happened. John had sex with Mycroft. 

Sherlock knew they would eventually, so it shouldn’t have come as a shock. It doesn’t feel like it exactly, especially because Sherlock suspects that his own heat might have been the trigger. He can deduce from John’s face that he enjoyed it. There’s a bright cheerfulness that seems to surround him - John is _pleased_. 

Sherlock did feel a sliver of fear when he said what he has always wanted to say, that John is allowed no one else. But John agreed readily. No more dating, no more online flirting and women that John leaves to go see every evening. 

Sherlock knows that Mycroft will agree on that, too. If it were up to Mycroft, John will never sleep with anyone else again in his life. Sherlock has seen the anger in him when John dates. 

Sherlock drinks with John, because it’s obvious that John wants him to. 

It’s John reaching out for something they can share. Sherlock has never thought of alcohol as his preferred substance for alteration of the mind, but he can admit that it feels nice enough to sink into drunkenness. To see the room spin mildly and John laugh about something that objectively isn’t all that funny. John’s deep, relaxed giggles are so infectious that Sherlock laughs too, again and again. 

He feels outside of reality. But John is here, John is laughing, and it feels right. 

They go to bed, and Sherlock watches John in the nearly total dark. He can’t see him well like this, only the faintest outline of his face. Sherlock lies on his side and listens to John’s breathing. Sometimes, to take him in even like this is overwhelming. 

The sheer concept of John feels entirely alien. That there even would be such a thing as John, right here in his bed, seems impossible. And then other times, it feels as if they are so similar that they know every nuance, every thought that matters, and they move together as one.

John told him that he loves him today. As much as Sherlock likes hearing it, he knows it means something different for them both. For John, love means desire. He says it to imply depth of emotion and care, and Sherlock can appreciate that. But his own love for John is something impossible. Huge and raw, painful. He will never, ever have enough of it. 

He will never give enough, either. 

Be enough. 

Sherlock has no idea what it is to Mycroft. Probably something neatly classified, a list of attributes that somehow combine to create a somewhat palatable human being. Maybe that is how it would be for Sherlock as well, if this was something that he ever tried to control, but he didn’t. He let it overwhelm him. It crackled to life within minutes of meeting John. It took hold of him system by system, until there was nothing but John radiating inside of him. 

Sherlock will never be whole without John again. He’s not certain if that’s what anyone would call love, but it is the truth. It’s something so fundamental that there is no name for it, it’s simply there. There is no use in fighting it. 

Sherlock can only lie in bed at two in the morning, inebriated, and think that John’s sighs in his sleep are the most essential thing he has ever listened to. That if John would stop breathing, Sherlock wouldn’t be sure if he himself is a being anymore, or just drifting in this room as a spectre, a used-to-be. 

 

-

 

Sherlock does fall asleep eventually, because John’s groan as he sits up wakes him. “Mm?” 

Sherlock moves, and John looks back guiltily. “Sorry.”

“You have a headache.” Sherlock can deduce it easily because he has one himself, although probably lighter than John’s, judging by the amount John drank last night. 

“Yeah.” John’s voice grates and he coughs. 

Sherlock knows that it will cheer John when he points out, “It’s your last week at work.” 

John blinks. “It is.” He grins, then flinches - _headache_ \- but he says in a more jovial tone, “I’ll do the last week hung-over then, they’ll never see the difference.” He gets up. 

Sherlock hears him peeing in the bathroom and then the shower turning on. 

He checks his phone. As expected, Mycroft texted. It’s more restrained than Sherlock would have thought, just a single message. “I believe we should talk. M” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Of course Mycroft will have words for this. Careful smiles covering up the guilt he feels for even wanting sex with John, never mind actually going ahead with it. Loss of control, _oh, how it will sting._ Sherlock’s not in the mood to listen to Mycroft’s self-flagellation. He ignores the text. 

It’s only a brief delay, but it’s better than nothing. 

Sherlock gets up and waits for John to finish in the bathroom. 

He tries to calculate how long it’ll take for Mycroft to hunt him down. Will he wait until tonight, or will the ignescent need to explain himself win out sooner? Sherlock’s money is on sooner. Mycroft’s likely to pay him a visit today while John’s at work. 

John eats a slice of toast with obvious distaste, but in spite of it, he seems to be in a decent mood. As he’s leaving, John asks, “You doing anything special with Violet today? The Christmas lights are up now I think, you can go see them.” 

There’s a hint of longing in John’s voice as he says it. Does he want to go do that with Violet himself? Sherlock’s not certain whether he read that right, but he offers, “We can go together next week.” 

And John smiles. “Yeah, yeah, that’s true.” He considers it. “I’ll have to get used to that.” 

A Christmas with John at home. Sherlock will have to take cases to make sure that John doesn’t feel useless. But then there is a ticking clock anyway, John wants to spend time with Violet now, and then in a couple of months there will be the baby. It’ll all change again. So Sherlock smiles back. “It’ll be nice, John.”

“Yeah?” John looks at him searchingly. “You’re still good with that, then?” 

He is. “Looking forward to it.” 

It comes out before Sherlock has really thought it through, but John seems to find it profound for some reason, because his eyes go all soft. “Me, too.” He coughs. “Yeah, anyway, going!”

“See you tonight.”

 

-

 

Sherlock purposefully goes out. To the closest science equipment shop for microscope slides and aspartic acid. To the bakery, because John will be happy with fresh bread. Past an antiques market and the taxidermist’s. If his movements are unpredictable, it will be harder for Mycroft to find him. 

It’s only a temporary escape. Sherlock feels about done with the crowds by noon and goes home anyway. He waits for the nanny to bring Violet - once she’s here, he’s fairly sure he’s safe. Mycroft wouldn’t want to risk a potentially volatile discussion with Violet between them. 

Sherlock isn’t sure why he is avoiding Mycroft. Maybe it’s so he won’t have to look at Mycroft and know that he finally won. He got it all. Mycroft is making John happy, now, he’s doing everything Sherlock himself can’t. He always has, hasn’t he? He’s always been _better_. 

But Sherlock can’t work up any real rage. He remembers their last bonding too well for that. It still plays under his skin, what Mycroft did. For the first time in his life, Sherlock got through a heat without feeling as if he lost parts of himself. Mycroft and John made it bearable.

And he can’t avoid it forever. Mycroft will be here tonight regardless, so Sherlock texts, “I am taking Violet to Regent’s Park. The main gates, 3PM. SH” 

He knows that whatever Mycroft has in his day will immediately be rescheduled so that he’ll be there, and Sherlock feels a hint of superiority at having that power. And at being the one to take it, too, and most likely surprise Mycroft. 

Mycroft predictably answers within the minute, “I will be there. M” 

Sherlock puts Violet down for her afternoon nap. She doesn’t always sleep anymore, but it is good for her to calm down a bit. Sherlock wraps her in a blanket and lies next to her on the bed. He still has a faint headache crawling through his brain, and he enjoys the chance to close his eyes while Violet curls against his side. She’s a warm presence. She plays with his hair, her eyes glassy, as she mumbles a song the nanny has been singing to her. 

Sherlock never minds holding Violet. He isn’t certain if it’s the bond with Mycroft that did that, or if it is because she is a child, and she doesn’t take anything with thought. She is simply there, and she needs him. Sherlock can be this for her. He has always been able to. 

Violet sleeps for a whole hour. Then she wakes up and as he changes her nappy, Sherlock wonders about toilet training. It’s probably not a good idea right before the baby comes, but she’s the right age to start now. Then a little snack of animal biscuits that she mashes in her hand as much as she actually eats. Some playing, during which Sherlock lets her do what she wants, and then at ten to three he wraps her up in her coat. She throws a small tantrum over her gloves again because they are bound together with a string in her sleeves that she hates. 

A month ago, Sherlock still would have carried Violet down the stairs, but now she insists on going herself and determinately takes every step. As slow as she is, Sherlock lets her. Stopping her will result in another tantrum. 

In all, they’re only five minutes late walking up to the gate at Regent’s Park. 

Mycroft is already there, of course. He’s wearing his dark coat, buttoned up against the cold, but where it would have hidden his pregnancy a while back, now it is notably curved around it. 

Mycroft nods at him. “Sherlock.” 

Violet raises her arms to Mycroft to be picked up. Sherlock, without truly thinking about it, lifts her and hands her over so that Mycroft doesn’t have to bend over. 

It makes Mycroft glance at him with careful gratitude. That one action has already said more than an entire conversation will, Sherlock knows. 

Mycroft holds Violet and says to her, “I understand that we are going to see the birds?” 

“Yes! The ducks and the pigeons and the parrots and the penguins...” She chatters on happily. 

When Mycroft slows down, not sure which direction to choose, Sherlock says, “Left.” 

They have never done this together. 

Mycroft carries her for a while more and then lets her walk while holding his hand. 

Sherlock says, “You can let her go.” 

Mycroft does, and she toddles a couple paces ahead. She’s well-used to this path, they’ve done it nearly every day since she was a baby. 

Sherlock can see Mycroft ready himself from the corner of his eye. The pained frown, the careful inhale. Sherlock is prepared for it, so as soon as it comes, Mycroft’s, “I’m sorry-” 

Sherlock interjects. “Why?” Sherlock faces him. “You’re not.” Why would Mycroft be, truly? John is amazing. 

Mycroft rethinks his words and says, “I do not want to cause you any pain, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock looks at Violet as she stops, bends her knees in an awkward move, and picks a single blade of grass from the path. She comes back, looks between them, and then chooses Sherlock. She holds her hand out as if she brought him a treasure, and Sherlock accepts it from her gloved hand. “Thank you?” 

“Thank you.” Sherlock replies. 

She smiles widely, showing her dozen or so teeth, and then goes back to find something else. 

Sherlock looks at Mycroft. “He’s happy.” It’s a reason to hate Mycroft, John’s happy now - _now_ , he is. 

Mycroft nods, slowly. “For the moment.” He glances at him. “Are you?” 

Sherlock isn’t certain what makes a person happy. What counts, and what doesn’t. “Doesn’t matter.” 

“It does to me.” Mycroft says it simply, as if that is a thing he would usually admit. 

Sherlock laughs mirthlessly. Since when is that important? That’s he’s _safe_ , yes. _Reigned in_ , not using, good, all of that. But Sherlock looks at Mycroft and reads the worry there. Sleepless nights that shouldn’t be there now he’s pregnant, the general state of him, and he knows that’s no longer true. 

Sherlock wonders briefly what it would do to Mycroft if he’d tell him that he loves him. Mycroft would be stunned. Sherlock won’t say it, of course, he’ll never go that far - he doesn’t need to. But he can make this easy for Mycroft, so Sherlock says, “Do it. John. Love him.” 

Predictably, Mycroft’s eyebrows rise. “I don’t think that’s quite what John intends, I believe it is rather more…” his mouth pulls, “to do with biology, as you suggested.” 

Sherlock eyes him and, unsure why he is even saying this, only that it feels bright on his tongue, says, “Please.” 

Mycroft looks away with obvious discomfort. He checks where Violet is, and sees that she is peering at a bush and probably a duck behind it. He swallows. “I don’t understand this, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s eyes brush over the water, skitter across the ground, to Violet, then away again, “How you can possibly want this.” 

It’s useless. Mycroft doesn’t need to understand. But still, Sherlock feels a sting that he doesn’t. If anyone would, if _anyone_ could… He looks away. They pass Violet, and Sherlock says, “Come on, there are ducks by the reeds.” 

She obediently takes his hand. Sherlock doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t speak. 

Both of them walk on in silence, only broken by Violet’s occasional comment. When they’re at the end of the path, Mycroft looks at him. “I will be back around eight?” 

Of course, he’ll work an hour longer now to make up for this. “Fine.” 

Mycroft’s eyes run over him, and he wants to say more - oh, Sherlock knows he wants to talk _endlessly_ , Mycroft always does - but he holds back and just nods. “Sherlock.” He brushes a hand over Violet’s curls. “See you in a bit.” 

Sherlock takes her home.

 

 

 

 

 


	78. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft returned from Regent’s Park thirty-five minutes ago, but he is still looking at the same file he picked up when he first sat down. 

His hands feel both sweaty and cool to the touch, even though he wore his leather gloves. His toes are cold in his loafers, but his stomach is radiating heat as it always does. It is one of the mysteries of pregnancy. Mycroft puts his hand over it briefly. His child is warm and safe. 

He is not certain why he is so distracted. 

Sherlock is always kind to Violet - Mycroft would not have expected otherwise, but Sherlock would have had every reason to curse him now. Or at the very least, express some sort of displeasure. Mycroft cannot help but feel as if he failed him, despite Sherlock on the surface appearing fine. 

Sherlock invited him to the park for a short walk with his child, and spoke to him about this in an entirely mature fashion. Mycroft can scarcely reconcile it with what he had expected to happen. With what, perhaps, he feels he deserves. For surely, he has crossed uncrossable lines. Wilfully sinned. 

But Sherlock asked him to do it again. To love John. 

Mycroft did not lie, he truly does not understand how Sherlock can possibly want this to continue. But more importantly, Mycroft is not convinced that he can be what Sherlock seems to want, a solution to all of their problems, and a distraction to the point that John will never want to stray again. 

Mycroft had never intended to be that, either. He had thought… well, he can admit that he had been led by a rather pressing amount of hormones at the time. 

Yet, was it only that? 

It wasn’t the frantic and rough coupling Mycroft had anticipated. 

Perhaps he had simply not given John enough credit. It is not as if John is an alpha, and John has been a lover to many, so of course he would attempt to please first and foremost. Perhaps Mycroft overlooked how very different it is to share such a thing with someone who knows him, as well. Someone with whom he is already sharing a part of his life. 

Mycroft is aware of what John tried to do by mentioning Violet right after they had done that act together. It worked, they were back to leaning on the bond they have spent the last few years creating, the relationship that is already there. And because of it, the sex was simply a moment in between all others. 

John has texted since, but none of it has been suggestive. It seems as if he, too, is waiting to see whether this will be something they repeat between them or not. This is the moment where they all need to decide and steer this in a direction, Mycroft can recognise that. However, he finds it impossible to see which direction that should be. 

Mycroft stares at his files, his mind considering, doubting, weighing. He is startled by a knock at the door. “Sir?” 

It’s Anthea. 

Mycroft admits, “I have not finished the requisitions.” 

She nods easily. “We don’t need those until tomorrow.” Yes, but he planned to do them now. She hands him another pile of papers - oh yes, the North Korean surveillance. Her eyes are briefly worried. “Everything all right, sir?” 

Mycroft smiles at her. “My dear brother, as ever.” 

She tilts her head and asks, cleverly, “And Doctor Watson?” 

Ah. Mycroft considers her. Has she figured it out? Has she overheard something at one point, or simply deduced it? He says, calmly, “Looking forward to the birth of our child.”

Anthea offers, “You have a sonogram scheduled for Friday morning.” 

Mycroft does, yes. Although he fails to see how this is relevant. 

Anthea doesn’t look at him and starts to leave as she says, “I imagine that they both would be thrilled to see the baby.”

She’s gone before Mycroft can object to the overly personal remark, but he feels a brush of anger nonetheless. Anthea is well aware that he never shares those appointments with either of them. There are sides of this that Mycroft wishes to keep private, and the indignity of his doctor’s appointments is very much on that list. 

Mycroft had intended to share the picture of the sonogram with John and Sherlock afterwards, certainly, but to ask them along… If something were to go wrong, Mycroft does not want them there. 

He scheduled an appointment this week for a reason.

He was exactly this far along with Violet when he nearly miscarried. At times, that is a distant memory which is barely relevant to his life, but at others the fear of it looms grand in his mind. It is a reality that it almost happened to him once, and that it still could now. He could lose this baby. The baby is too small now to survive if it were to be born - Mycroft thinks that thought multiple times a day. 

So although this is not an essential sonogram, Mycroft insisted. The doctor had not asked him why he would need one at exactly twenty-two weeks and three days, she had simply glanced at his file and agreed. 

Perhaps because of it, his best memories of his pregnancy with Violet were at the very end. When he was bonding with Sherlock in those last weeks. When she seemed so real, underneath his skin. 

But this pregnancy still has far to go before he’s there. 

Mycroft does very little for the rest of the afternoon. He has not taken time off to be sick for over a month now, so a preoccupation of his mind, while inconvenient, is not the end of the world. He feels that sometimes such a thing is allowed.

He thinks about John as well. Will John want to repeat their indiscretion? Mycroft assumes so. Will John wish to kiss him the next time they are alone? Will his behaviour change? 

Part of Mycroft wishes that he had more experience in intimate relationships. Not so much the physical side, but in all the things that come with it. 

Since he has not done this often, he fears that he does not do it well. 

 

-

 

Mycroft picks Violet up from Baker Street as always that evening. 

John is home, and he looks up as Mycroft walks in and smiles, slowly and somewhat uncertain. Mycroft is unsure what his own expression tells John, but he nods. “Good evening.” And John’s smile changes to something easier. 

For a moment, Mycroft feels as if they are both choosing their roles now, what they will portray when Sherlock is here, when Violet is here. A Violet who does not particularly want to come home, apparently. She is playing with some sort of miniature merry-go-round and doesn’t even look up at hearing him. 

John says, “Sherlock is in his room.”

His meaning is obvious - Sherlock left them alone on purpose. Mycroft does not know to what end. John does not move from his chair, he does not look as if he will embrace him, or as if he wants anything at all different from what they are to one another usually. So Mycroft focuses on Violet. “Come, Violet, we’re going home.” 

She screams, “No, I’m _playing!_ ” 

“You can play tomorrow.” 

John adds, “You can. Promise.”

That makes Mycroft look at him again, and he decides that perhaps Anthea had a point. If they are to find a new kind of equilibrium then Mycroft can make this about the one thing he knows they all care for. He lets Violet play and walks to Sherlock’s door. 

He knocks, “Sherlock?” 

No reply, but Mycroft did not expect one. He lets himself in. Sherlock is lying back on his bed, looking every bit the sullen teenager Mycroft remembers so well. John is still in the living room, but he is close enough to overhear them talk like this. 

Mycroft says, hesitantly, “I have a sonogram scheduled on Friday morning, seven thirty AM.” 

Sherlock looks up. The interest is obvious in his eyes. 

“You are both welcome, if you wish to attend.”

Mycroft closes the door behind him, and yes, it’s clear that John has heard as well. John asks, “You’re sure?” 

“If you are interested.” 

“Yeah, of course!” John smiles. “Of course I’m interested.” 

Indeed. It is John’s child, so it is only natural that he would wish to do this at least once. 

Mycroft takes Violet, who is annoyed at being pulled away from her toy. He says a quick goodbye to John and carries her downstairs, aware of the oncoming difficulty of this simple action. Violet cries in the car, her high-pitched voice reverberating through the small space, and Mycroft tries to calm her. Did some of the tension of today somehow disturb her? Can she sense it? 

He tries to appear unperturbed for her sake. Once she’s home, she miraculously cheers up, and asks, “It’s bath time?” 

Mycroft suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, you can have a bath.” She doesn’t really need to be bathed that often, but she enjoys playing in water, and she tends to fall asleep easier afterwards, so he allows it. 

Mycroft takes his suit jacket off, rolls his sleeves up, and moves a chair that he keeps in the bathroom specifically for this purpose to the edge of the bathtub. He does not want to leave Violet unsupervised when she is in the water, but it is hard on his back to bend over. He hands her toys, scoops water for her, and watches her play.

Afterwards, Mycroft puts Violet to bed, and then stretches out on his own bed with his legs up, trying to relieve some of the strain on his lower back. He briefly worries, and the thought comes accompanied with a small tensing of his stomach - back ache, what if it is… No. Mycroft calms his mind purposefully. 

No, he will not miscarry, and to dwell on it does not help anyone. 

It is out of habit that he takes his phone and checks it. There are no messages from John. 

Mycroft wants to reach out, but then he does not know what to say exactly. What he writes is, “Violet emptied out a whole bucket of water onto the floor from her bath, partially onto my shoes. MH” 

John replies gratifyingly fast - he must have been looking at his phone as well. “Hah, yeah, she does love to do that, doesn’t she? Did you get a maniacal laugh with that? JW”

Mycroft writes back, multiple times. He is not certain what he is doing. Only that he seems to want to. 

 

-

 

The morning of the sonogram arrives quickly. Mycroft is busy coordinating the fallout from a minor crisis with a launch code. It would be tense if it was not so very predictable - human error, as it always tends to be. He works well into the night at home, so he only gains a couple of hours of sleep before the six thirty AM alarm.

Getting his pregnant body out of bed is a mission that takes at least a full minute of waiting for the dizziness to recede before standing. He dresses first, and only then wakes Violet and focuses on her, so that she is at least dressed and fed by the time the nanny takes over. Mycroft does not need to do this, but he already has so little time with her, and he believes in the power of routine. He wants to be the person who puts her to bed in the evenings and wakes her in the mornings.

The car is waiting for him, but they hit some traffic, so Mycroft walks into the hospital corridor for the appointment just on time. He had wondered if Sherlock would come, so the sight of John and Sherlock both there and waiting for him is a small surprise. 

Mycroft walks up to them just as Dr. Mehta pokes her head out of her office door and says, “Mr. Holmes?” 

Mycroft waits for John and Sherlock to join them. The doctor says politely, “Ah, yes, I believe we have met?” 

She reaches out a hand, and Sherlock takes it, looking entirely charming and putting it on for her benefit, Mycroft assumes. “Sherlock Holmes.” 

John smiles at her and says, “John Watson.”

Mycroft briefly thinks that he should have called ahead with the request not to discuss anything private about his medical file. But she seems to understand this as she skips the talk about how he feels, and leads them to the paper-covered bench. “Let’s have a look at how the little one is doing today, shall we?” 

Mycroft lies down. This is not the first time that either John or Sherlock have seen him undergo this, and the memory of Violet’s sonogram seems even stronger today. That day, nearly three years ago now, where Mycroft nearly was not a parent at all. 

Mycroft opens the buttons of his shirt with numb fingers. He pulls his layers of clothing apart so that he only shows his stomach, but even then it feels invasive to be watched like this. 

The sight of his stomach is very far from attractive, Mycroft is aware. The scar of his caesarean is hidden by the line of his pants, but his skin is taunt over the curve of his stomach and the white stretch marks from his previous pregnancy are more visible now. Mycroft finds himself unable to meet John’s eyes.

The doctor smears the cold substance on his stomach and touches the probe to his skin. 

For a fraction of a moment, Mycroft allows his worst fears to come forward in his mind. The idea that his child is not alive, that something went terribly wrong. But then he hears the familiar thudding of a heartbeat, fast, and he exhales slowly. 

The doctor tilts the screen towards them, and Mycroft can see the black and white image he knows well. The baby is moving, slightly blurring the picture, but he can make out the line of the sack of amniotic fluid, and an outline of the baby’s spine and head.

Mycroft looks at John’s expression - John has a slight frown as he studies the picture, but there is a hint of pride in the way he stands. And Sherlock’s utter fascination is clear. Sherlock says, “The head circumference is approximately 180 millimetres?”

The doctor does not seem to find it bizarre that he would ask. She measures it, and a white line traces the sonogram image. “184, great eye!”

“Hm, within parameters,” Sherlock says. “And the femur length?” 

John smiles conspiratorially. “He’s been studying.” 

Sherlock meets his eyes. “How else would I know what to look for?”

The doctor grins at them and says, “You have a perfectly healthy little boy here.” 

Sherlock smiles proudly, John seems mainly impressed, and Mycroft feels a stab of gratitude for both of them that leaves him momentarily breathless.

Everything else seems to pale compared to this. He has a healthy child. 

_They_ do.

 

 

 

 

 


	79. (John)

 

 

John watches the sonogram and tries to _get_ somehow that he’s seeing his kid in there. It doesn’t look any different from all of the other sonograms John’s ever seen, but this is his son. And it should mean something. 

John has to stop himself from touching Mycroft’s hand, or to step just a bit too close, because that won’t be all that welcome right now, he supposes. This is about the baby, not them and whatever will happen with that. But it’s never completely out of his mind, either. 

Mycroft leaves to go to work right after the appointment with a short, “Around eight again tonight, I’m afraid.” 

John had told work he might be a bit late and fuck it, it’s his last day. So he asks Sherlock, “Want to go get breakfast somewhere?”

Sherlock smiles. “Yes, John.” 

John doesn’t really have anywhere in mind, but Sherlock always seems to know something. They end up in an Iranian place eating flatbread, hummus, and eggs, and it’s weird but nicely flavoured, so John eats his fill. 

Sherlock, as usual, doesn’t eat much. Instead he says, “The baby’s measuring a week behind.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything, Sherlock. Sonograms are only so accurate.” The baby seemed fine to the doctor, so that’s good enough for John. 

“Violet was ahead.” 

John grins. “And how do you know that?”

Sherlock eyes the table. “I let myself into Mycroft’s house and had a quick look at the sonograms.” 

Of course he did. “She’s an alpha and those tend to have a higher birth weight on average. Plus, my kid might be a bit shorter than Violet is, too?” 

Sherlock nods, considering. 

John laughs. “I hope not, mind you.” John remembers what it was like to be teased for being a short-arse. He learned to shut them up quick. But of course, with Mycroft as a parent that would only happen once and whoever did it would be removed from the school, John is sure. He should probably be more concerned about that, but instead it feels right. They’ll protect their kids from anything. 

They both look up as a family enters the café. They’re speaking in a fast stream of Farsi, and one of the men is heavily pregnant. 

John tries not to stare. Instead, he raises his mug of - well, whatever it is that Sherlock ordered him, goat yoghurt? - and says, “Our kid is healthy, and it’s my last day at work.” 

Sherlock raises his glass as well. “To today, John.”

John takes a gulp of his thick, slightly sour drink and smiles through it. Oh, sure, life’s bizarre, but it’s good, yeah? 

 

-

 

John goes to work, and there’s even a lacklustre Victoria sponge in the fridge, as a nod to him leaving. 

He never did make friends with any of his colleagues, so he slices a piece of the cake and takes it to his office. John wonders who bothered to get it from the nearest shop. 

He texts Mycroft, “Got a sad cake to celebrate my last day. Hurray! JW”

Mycroft replies, “Shall we celebrate properly this Sunday? I can arrange for more appropriate patisserie. MH” 

John can imagine it already - Mrs. Hudson happy that someone else brought cake for once, Violet running around between them as they eat off the good china. He wants that. He replies, “That would be nice. Let’s. JW” 

John works his last day at a slow pace. He sees an elderly lady with gallstones. A uni student asking for stimulants to get through his exams. A middle-aged man with depression. A five-month-old baby who missed her vaccinations because she had the flu. 

John spends some time checking her over just in case - parents always appreciate that, he thinks. He’s aware that the next time he’ll hold one this little, it’ll be his own, too. The mother asks, “Do you have any children, Doctor Watson?” 

John replies, trying to find her heartbeat as she squirms away from the cold stethoscope, “Yes, a two year old. Plus a baby on the way.” 

“Oh!” The woman smiles. “When is the baby due?” 

“A couple more months.” John checks the girl’s reflexes, then hands her back over. “She’s very responsive, is she sleeping through the night yet?” 

Next is an abscess he needs to drain, a toenail with fungus, and then his last patient at ten to six is entirely unremarkable, a fragile thirteen year old omega who needs a blood draw to check for Crohn’s Disease. John draws the vials of blood, sticks a bandage on there, and sends her out. Then he takes off his gloves, washes his hands, hangs his white coat up, and that’s it. 

He’s done. 

John looks around his office. 

He never did put a picture on his desk, of Sherlock or Violet or something like that. Actually, there’s nothing here that’s his. 

John has worked this job for four years, but he’s not at all sorry it’s over. He was never that attached to it, really. Fine, they were rather flexible with his leave and sick days. Those are the benefits of a group practice, but John’s sure that he would have been fired at some point soon anyway. Mary was much better liked here than he ever was, because she tried to be. She was always great at that, wasn’t she - the superficial stuff. None of them actually knew her, but they just somehow assumed she was a good woman. That John’s the one who did something to her. 

He closes the door behind him with a rather satisfying thud. 

John goes to the reception desk and hands over the last of his paperwork. It’s every file of the patients he saw today, all with dutiful notes in them. In his mind, he’s already going home. The receptionist accepts the pile of files and then looks to the side, smiles, and says to him, “I think your family is here, Doctor Watson.” 

John turns around. It’s _Sherlock_ , standing there. Holding Violet’s hand. 

Sherlock look unsure. “John.”

John grins and walks towards them. He lifts Violet into his arms. “Hello, you!” And then, aware that people are watching him, John leans in and kisses Sherlock on his cold cheek. 

Sherlock doesn’t pull away, thank god. He actually looks sort of pleased. 

John’s not sure why he never did this before. Why he never told anyone anything about them, but now there’s four or five doctors around, so John says, “My partner, Sherlock.” And hell, he’s never going to see these people again, so why not say it - “And Violet.” 

Marie, one of his newer co-workers, comes by and says, “Oh, what a lovely daughter you have, John!” 

John takes Sherlock’s arm and says, “Thank you.” And, “I’m off now, yeah?” which earns him some laughs. 

As they walk out the door, John can feel the warmth spreading in his chest. He should have done this years ago. He can see the way Sherlock’s beaming - he seems properly proud to be on his arm. To be out here as _his_. 

John looks at him. “You didn’t mind that, then?” 

Sherlock says, “Of course not.” 

Sherlock always just introduces him as ‘Doctor John Watson’ and leaves it at that, but maybe... Well, it did feel good. John says, “You can do that, too. Say it. If you want to.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but John can tell by his face that the next time they’re on a case, he’s going to be introduced as Sherlock’s partner whether someone asks or not. 

John turns to him. “So did you have plans, or?” John looks at Violet in his arms. She doesn’t seem to mind being carried for now, but she’s heavy. “You think she’s big enough to go to a restaurant?” 

Which is how they end up walking into Angelo’s. 

John feels a bit conspicuous bringing Violet, but Angelo comes out of the kitchen, looks at her, and he’s instantly sold. “Oh, what a wonderful little girl!” He finds them a table and then a highchair from somewhere, hands Violet a bread stick, and they’re good. 

John sends to Mycroft, “Celebrating that I’m done with work. We took Violet along to Angelo’s - don’t worry, child friendly. We’ll be home by eight. JW” 

Violet is eagerly looking around. She seems somewhat impressed by the activity of a Friday evening, as far as John knows it’s the first time she’s ever been out in a restaurant. She waves her bread stick. 

Mycroft replies, “Of course, such an occasion deserves to be celebrated. MH”

When Violet gets a bit louder, her shrill voice disappears into the mass of people talking, so John thinks that helps. They’re not about to get kicked out for having her here at any rate. Angelo brings Violet a packet of crayons and paper along with the menus, and John relaxes into it. 

The smell of garlic and tomato sauce is heavy on the air. He’s hungry, it’s a great atmosphere, and he’s glad to be here.

Sherlock looks at him over the menu, and John moves his hand over the table and takes Sherlock’s. 

John glances at the window and the seats where they sat, years ago now. It brings a pang of sadness, the way it always does. It reminds him of missed chances. Missed _years_. But it’s mild, tonight. It’s never not going to hurt, but it’s far away now. And the more things happen between then and now, the more good things, the more he’ll be able to stand it. 

John looks at Sherlock, their joined hands, and wonders what that spot means to him. What _he_ thinks they could have been. 

But Sherlock just looks back at him, with something soft in his gaze. 

And then frowns when Violet purposely starts throwing her crayons to the ground one by one, and John laughs. He sits back and eyes the two of them - two of his favourite people in the world. And feels happy to be here, now.

Lucky.

 

 

 

 

 


	80. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock is still buzzing with the memory of John calling him his _partner_. 

John didn’t object to someone calling Violet theirs, either, and it felt like an impossible moment. Sherlock started to associate those with John from the moment they met. The impossible John, who was impressed with him. Who laughed along with him. Who shot a man and giggled and followed him to dinner. 

Sherlock has done so many things wrong, he knows that. He’s still doing them, probably, because he’s never been similar to anyone else, never good like those dull, average people. But John came back, time and time again. John is here today. 

John seems to be in a great mood, his grins linger and shine on in his eyes even as his mouth relaxes. John reaches out his hand over the table, and Sherlock takes it in his. 

They have to let go a moment later, but it still makes his fingertips feel warmer.

The food is excellent, although Sherlock doesn’t taste much of it as his thoughts continue to fire - John, this, them together. John doesn’t remark on it. 

They don’t eat dessert because Violet starts struggling to be let out of her seat. It’s near enough to her bedtime that keeping her here too long risks a melt-down, so they pay a broadly smiling Angelo, wrestle Violet into her coat, and leave. 

It rained while they were eating and there is a bitter wind. Sherlock checks that Violet is still wearing her gloves - she is constantly taking them off - and carries her for a while, then switches with John. They should have brought the stroller, but he didn’t know that they’d be walking this far. Sherlock wasn’t even sure that John would approve, him showing up at his place of work. 

John is quiet, now, but Violet’s babbling makes up for it. “Eating, all the people, all the people. John!” She demands his attention. 

“Yes,” John agrees. “It’s fun, eating out in a restaurant, isn’t it?” He looks at Sherlock. “We can probably take her somewhere again soon? I mean, I’ll have time.” 

Sherlock has to smile at that. Yes, they can. They will have months until the baby is here, months to go out with Violet and take cases. 

They make it home, and allow Violet to run through the living room at high speed, picking one toy up after the other and then dropping them all over the flat – she can make an enormous mess when she tries. John sits down in his chair. 

They’re waiting for Mycroft, who arrives late and winces as he rubs his back. “My apologies, it was a busy day.” 

John’s hand briefly twitches. He is wanting to reach out, Sherlock thinks. John asks, “You all right? Sore?” 

“A full day on bad chairs will do that.” 

Sherlock tries to find the lie in Mycroft’s face, but it’s not there. 

John asks, “You want me to take Violet to the car?” 

Mycroft hesitates. 

Is it a ploy so they can talk without him present? Or kiss, something like that? Sherlock isn’t certain. John seems as willing to help as ever, and Mycroft seems to come to the same conclusion, because he nods. “If you would.” 

Sherlock says goodbye to Violet, and he watches them leave. 

It stings a little. 

Sherlock turns on the sofa and stares at the cushions. He can hear John come back after a couple of minutes, but it doesn’t matter. 

John putters around for the rest of the evening, then eventually comes over and puts a surprisingly warm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. It seeps through his clothes. “Sherlock? You want to come to bed?” 

Sherlock wants to say no. He wants to lie here all night and replay the image of Mycroft and John, and of every person that John has ever wanted. But instead, Sherlock breathes out, turns around, and says, “Of course.” 

John seems briefly taken aback at his enthusiasm. “Well, come on then.” 

Sherlock doesn’t even lie awake for hours, next to John. He sleeps, almost normally. They are here, together. 

Almost normally.

 

-

 

On Sunday, Mycroft brings them overpriced artisanal éclairs, meringues, and raspberry tarts. And Violet, who looks awkward in a pristine white dress with flowers. Especially as she tries to climb on Mrs. Hudson’s lap and rather than attempting to stay covered, she simply pulls her dress up, showing them all her stomach. 

John laughs and says, “Maybe she’s a bit young for dresses.” 

Mrs. Hudson straightens Violet’s skirt and laughs, too. “She’s a little acrobat, isn’t she?” 

Sherlock glances at Mycroft and wonders when he’ll start to insist that Violet looks respectable. Not now, not yet, but in a few years. How much will he ask of her? Especially if she might not quite be what the world wants her to be. 

But Mycroft says serenely, “She has developed a dislike for clothing of any kind, I’m afraid.” Then Mycroft looks at him. “So did Sherlock until age… eight, was it?” 

Sherlock feels briefly insulted. He _did_ wear clothes, it’s simply that they were in the way and annoyed him when he was busy. Mummy never wanted them to be dirty, so it made more sense to strip… and then he notices the tilt of Mycroft’s mouth. He is inviting him to joke along in this. “I believe there are pictures,” Mycroft offers. 

John laughs, unbridled. “Oh, you’ll have to show me some of those.”

It’s never-ending, the bits and pieces that prove amusing to John. Sherlock says, “Hmm, fine.”

“Really?” John asks. 

“Yes.” Sherlock has been wondering exactly how Violet resembles him as a child. She has Mycroft’s nose and a softer hue of hair, but she does have enough of Sherlock that people instantly assume that she is his. He wants to compare. 

 

-

 

John being unemployed now doesn’t feel significantly different for the first few days. 

Monday feels like an extension of the weekend. They take Violet to look at the dinosaurs in the Natural History Museum, and she screeches with delight, runs circles around the exhibitions, and cries up a storm when they have to leave. 

On Tuesday, they walk through Regent Street and see the lights. Sherlock is not convinced that Violet even notices. She’s very distracted by the masses of people passing them by, but John seems convinced that this is a necessary activity. She is transfixed by the window display at Hamleys toy shop though, and they spend a good hour in there letting her look at everything and pulling her away from the more delicate and dangerous toys. 

This is going to be over soon, Sherlock knows. John’s never been good at doing nothing. He needs action, adventure. At the very least Sherlock had expected John to leave for sex with Mycroft by now. Sherlock had assumed that he would babysit, then. 

But John stays home. 

It’s enough to make Sherlock feel uneasy. He checks his inbox in the morning and reads it to John. It’s a list of easy cases, stupid things ranging from ‘My husband is cheating on me’ to ‘I sent money to a long-lost aunt and she never paid me back’. It’s very unpromising, until the last one, ‘Someone inseminated my horse.’

John chokes on his tea and says, “Major crime, is it?”

Sherlock quickly scans the email and the payment offered. “It is when it is a prize-winning horse.” 

And that is how they end up in a privately-owned stable, with Sherlock’s shoes sinking into the cold mud, pretending to be interested in investing in a horse. 

John is the one who gets close to the animals, touches their flanks and asks questions about their history, while Sherlock trails behind and doesn’t give away that he already knows the motive. It’s a fairly simple case of competitive breeders, but John seems to enjoy it. 

They make it back to Baker Street just in time to see Mycroft pick Violet up from Mrs. Hudson. John takes the time to say hi to Violet, and then smile at Mycroft as Mrs. Hudson leaves them alone. 

Sherlock hears Mycroft say, with an upturned nose, “John, please be advised, you smell of _manure_.” 

John laughs and says, “Kind of sexy though, yeah?”

Mycroft blinks, seemingly startled, and Sherlock can feel Mycroft’s confusion. John is like that, simply insinuating sex everywhere. Mycroft will not know that yet, so Sherlock says, “He wants you to kiss him now.” 

Mycroft frowns. “I really don’t think that…” 

Sherlock turns around and walks up the stairs. He can hear John’s movement. He glances back with something tense in his throat, and sees John drawing Mycroft in, and then kissing him slowly. Gently. Mycroft is still holding Violet in his arms, and even she is giggling. 

Sherlock hadn’t intended to do more than simply confirm that they were in fact kissing and move on, but now that he is looking, he can’t look away. He can see the careful way Mycroft is bending towards John, and the interplay of their lips.

Sherlock pulls his eyes away and starts up the stairs before they know he was watching. 

He sits down on his chair, then replays the image. It suits John, kissing. John has always been made for that sort of thing - touching, feeling, being with people. It’s Mycroft who seemed unreal when doing that. Sherlock finds the pleasure on Mycroft’s face hard to understand. 

John comes upstairs and says, “Hey, you okay….” His voice wavers. _Guilt._ “Look, it’s probably not a good idea if we do that here, it was…” He pauses. “Stupid? Yeah. We won’t do it again.”

Sherlock takes in the turn of John’s shoulders and the chastised expression. John _wanted_ to kiss Mycroft, it was clear. “I said you could.” 

“Yeah, but it’s still different when it’s us actually doing it.” John argues. 

He looks as if he is trying to be understanding - Sherlock knows the look well. Which is why he says, “It’s fine.” 

John nods. “All right. Okay.”

 

-

 

That evening, when John is lost in some action film on TV, Sherlock goes down the stairs and sits on the lowest few steps in the hall.

He calls Mycroft. 

It rings only twice, and then there is the sound of Mycroft’s voice, already tinted with worry - of course it is, he can never let anything be - “Sherlock?” 

“You liked it. John kissing you.” Mycroft wasn’t pretending, Sherlock is almost certain of it. He’s never seen Mycroft look like that. Soft, in his pleasure. 

There is a brief pause, and he can hear a shuffle. Mycroft sounds ill at ease. “...we should never have done so in your home.” 

No, that’s not what he needs to know. Stupid, too, as if only kissing where Sherlock can’t see would make it any less true. “You _enjoy_ it.” 

Sherlock can almost hear Mycroft’s frown. “I do not enjoy making you feel uncomfortable, Sherlock.” 

“When he kisses you. It feels good.”

“Yes, of course it does!” Mycroft, as ever, is absorbed in his own sense of atonement, never recognising that what he feels guilty for won’t be improved by his suffering. 

Sherlock pauses. Mycroft will realise why he asked. 

Sherlock could never stand it, kissing. It’s fine because it’s John, but the actual interplay of lips and breaths and tongue and spit is nothing short of nauseating. Sherlock has always opened his mouth somewhat and wished for it to be done. His lips feel numb, after, as if they were used by someone other than himself. He has never found a kiss at all bearable. Sherlock always assumed that was because kissing has something to do with emotion, and he divorced himself from that early on. 

But _Mycroft_ wasn’t pretending. 

Mycroft says, cautiously, finally understanding, “Does it not feel that way to you?” 

“No.” It doesn’t feel like much of an admission, but Mycroft’s breath sounds surprised. Can he not fathom how defective Sherlock really is? How much he is missing? Sherlock does like it when John kisses his cheek, like he did at the doctor’s practice, because it implies ownership, familiarity, it is a gesture of meaning. But it has never made him feel anything positive. 

Mycroft’s reply is careful. “And that is why you want me to do so?” 

Mycroft did say he didn’t understand. Sherlock’s sure that those words have been only uttered by Mycroft in combination with his name. About the drugs, the heats, the pain, the loneliness, but Sherlock has always thought that Mycroft at least understood this. 

It’s better that he doesn’t. That Mycroft _can_ kiss John, because John loves kissing. “Yes. Do it again.” 

Mycroft hesitates. “I’m not certain if that is…” He breathes. “Perhaps some sort of rule might be in order?” 

There is a rule. “John can’t be with anyone else.”

“Yes, he told me as much.” 

“You’re pleased.” It’s not a taunt - Sherlock is happy about it as well. Plus, Mycroft is possessive. Sherlock is sure of it. 

Mycroft admits, “I am perhaps not as _comfortable_ with sharing as you are.” 

“No, you’re rubbish at it.” 

Mycroft laughs. “I would say so, yes.” 

Sherlock glances towards the living room. John’s film might be done soon. “See you tomorrow.” 

“Good n…” 

Sherlock ends the conversation before he can hear the rest. 

It all makes sense, at least. It’s clear, what John and Mycroft are doing, why, and how. Maybe even more so now that Sherlock has seen them kiss. 

He was right all along. 

It works.

 

 

 

 

 


	81. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft never imagined himself brazenly kissing John in front of Sherlock in the hallway of 221b. While holding Violet, as well. 

It was a foolish moment. John was flirting, Sherlock gave them his explicit permission - Mycroft should have considered it further, but John smiled at him and leaned in for a kiss that made the ground wave under his feet. 

It is only later that the guilt about it surfaces, because what might have seemed natural in that moment was truly anything but. Really, Mycroft should never have done such a thing. He feels some astonishment at himself that he did. Since when does he listen to Sherlock when Sherlock makes an outrageous suggestion like that? Since when is he this easily led and seduced, convinced to violate the comfortable atmosphere of John and Sherlock’s home, and risk hurting Sherlock outright? 

Mycroft can feel this changing him. It is not simply his body that underscores it - the constant weight of his stomach, the aches and pains of pregnancy, the sense of being helpless against this tide, unable to control the rate at which his whole self is taken over by the creation of his child. No, even more so, his entire self is taken over by John. 

It is not even lust. While it is present, yes - Mycroft would have gladly taken John to his bed after kissing him, he would at any time - it is not all. Mycroft longs for John’s presence. John’s touch, calm and unobtrusive. John’s laugh and voice. 

Mycroft wishes to have him near. 

And such a wish is entirely alien. Or at least it should be to Mycroft, it should feel like a breach to his deepest self, a change that is sudden and painful and does not suit him in the least, this business of craving another. 

Instead, Mycroft feels rather grateful most of the time. Warmed by the thought of John, of Violet, the baby, and Sherlock. 

And yes, there is the ache of uncertainty, the constant reminder that when it comes to interpersonal relationships, Mycroft never quite grasped it all. He was always somehow perceived as being less than spontaneous, less than genuine. But while the low-level worry for the future of all of this seems like a constant cloud surrounding him, it does not entirely weigh up against the pleasure of actually kissing John. 

Mycroft tries to control it. To suppress it, even, but the thought of John’s touch is the feeling that floods him when he is not paying attention, the lift that gets him out of bed in the morning. 

It is dangerous. 

Mycroft knows very well that it is only a temporary state. He is giving things away now that will feel as if he can never reclaim them later. He is opening himself up for a fall. 

And still, he cannot push the feeling away completely. 

It’s in the small wave in his stomach when the baby moves a hand or foot, as well. In Violet’s wonder when she lays her head down on his belly and ‘listens for the baby’. In Sherlock’s care when he bonds. Mycroft’s misgivings aside, the fact that Sherlock and himself are communicating this well right now seems nearly impossible. 

And John. 

Mycroft is aware that his state is both entirely explainable and entirely base - he is _infatuated_ , nothing more. 

It is ridiculous, disastrous, and entirely wrong. It is not simply John that makes him feel this, either, it is his whole life that seems to span between some unseen pitfall and the sweet promise of more of this, this momentary happiness. 

When Anthea catches him smiling, she asks, slyly, “Feeling good, sir?”

Mycroft eyes her and says, “Pregnancy hormones are a force not to be meddled with.” 

Which makes her laugh. It is another testament to how very far he has drifted from himself that Anthea both feels that she can laugh at his words, and that Mycroft does not feel any irritation at seeing her do it. 

_Change._ Mycroft glances at her and wonders what Anthea sees. What she thinks of him. What makes her feel this comfort with him now, while he has kept their interactions strictly professional for years. He can’t be certain whether he has lost some of his standing with her in allowing this. Whether he is losing influence and power right now, and with it his very self, when what he is gaining is so very fickle. 

 

-

 

Mycroft is home that evening, sitting next to Violet while she plays with her building blocks before bedtime. He is still feeling John’s kiss reverberate, and considering asking John to come over, or to create a situation where they can be alone.

But when he checks his phone, Mycroft sees a message from Father. He listens to it, dutifully. 

“Mykie, it’s getting close to Christmas and I wondered, if you’d… you could come over and visit? Sherlock and, and John, you can bring Violet, your girl, I’d love to…” His voice trails off. “I’d love to meet her, Mykie.” 

Mycroft glances at Violet - her bright, beautiful spirit. 

He’ll think on it. 

 

-

 

The next day when Mycroft comes by Baker Street, there is a trail of pine needles on the stairs, the distant sound of a Christmas carol, and Mycroft can imagine exactly what might be going on. _‘Tis the season._

He sighs. 

Sherlock has always been entirely too fond of the holiday, and John seems to insist on celebrating every Christmas as well. Mycroft takes a deep breath and heads up the stairs. Still, he is not entirely prepared for the sheer mayhem that greets him. 

Violet draws his eye first, as she is running around in a nappy, a pair of angel wings that have Mrs. Hudson’s intent all over them, a string of tinsel wrapped around her neck, and a paper crown from her toddler’s group. She is waving a red bauble in the air and screeches when she sees him, “We’re making a tree! Because Christmas, Father, it’s Christmas!”

“...I see.” John and Sherlock are both indeed tending to the Christmas tree. Sherlock is standing on a chair and trying to wrap tinsel in even lines, while John is draping lights at the same time. There are cardboard boxes on the floor and decorations strewn around, a plate of half-eaten biscuits in star-shapes on the table, and Violet seems exhilarated. 

In fact, Mycroft is greeted by not only hers, but three smiles varying in intensity. Sherlock is unapologetically enjoying this. John’s is a bit milder as he says, “Welcome to your worst nightmare.”

Mycroft has never kept his distaste for the holiday a secret. He looks around and observes the unlit candles, the pinecones, fake plastic angels, and even a nativity scene. “Yes, this does seem rather…” He allows his face to show his unease. “ _...excessive?_ ” 

“Mrs. Hudson let us go up to the loft and take anything that might work. Turns out there was more there than we thought.”

Sherlock throws him something that Mycroft catches only on reflex. It’s a small, round decoration. Clearly hand-made, out of tin. “World War Two?” 

Sherlock nods, proudly. “Children’s guide.” 

Well, that is rather interesting. For one who would not mind turning their home into this. 

Violet comes to hand him something as well, her clammy hand outstretched. “A baby! For you.” 

It is the baby Jesus from the nativity scene. She gives it to him as if she believes it is the thing he most desires, and Mycroft makes certain to praise her. “Why, thank you, Violet.” 

John says, from the tree, “Yes, just like your father has one.” 

Violet nods, clearly understanding. “Yes, a baby.” 

She then moves on to yet another box to pull something out of it, and Mycroft briefly marvels at Violet’s intelligence. She might not understand the concept of there truly being a baby soon, but she can extrapolate that the idea of a small figure is the same as why he has been telling her for months now not to kick him in the stomach and to be careful. 

John ends his struggle with the fairy lights and asks, “You want a hot chocolate? Mrs. Hudson made some. No rum this time, we checked.” 

“No, thank you.” It does sound rather tempting, but Mycroft prefers to avoid the sugar. 

Sherlock jumps off his chair with a graceful thud and walks closer. Mycroft can tell what his intent is, and although he does not particularly feel the need to bond at this moment, it is pleasant enough. He feels the brief brush of Sherlock’s hand as he pulls his collar down, and then presses his lips there. Sherlock bites, very briefly. 

It is hardly a full bonding, but Sherlock lets go and seems satisfied. “Violet, time for clothes.” 

“Nooooo!!!” She runs off with a screech, and Sherlock goes after her.

Leaving Mycroft alone with John. 

John stops arranging the lights, takes the plug, and kneels by the box. “Let’s hope we didn’t fuck this up.” He plugs it in, and yes, a long string of multi-coloured lights start to glow. John gets up and smiles at him. 

Mycroft glances back at where Violet and Sherlock disappeared. Sherlock is dressing her in his bedroom. 

And Mycroft knows Sherlock’s arguments for this, but still he is not convinced of saying or doing something at all intimate towards John here. Although he wishes to, he has never fully understood the cues for it, either. Not like this, not when they are not in an explicitly romantic situation. 

John does not seem to feel any of the same hesitation. He steps closer to Mycroft and puts a hand to the side of his stomach, uninvited. Mycroft does not fully mind it, although he wonders at himself for allowing John to touch him so freely. 

“Feeling all right?” John asks. 

He might mean the baby. Or Mycroft personally, his health or his thoughts. John’s touch might simply be about feeling the baby kick, or John might mean it romantically, lustfully - Mycroft has all these thoughts in the space of a second and he cannot be sure which interpretation is correct, and which is simply his own wishful thinking. His heart is thudding, which is entirely out of proportion to John touching him so innocently. 

John looks at him, and he doesn’t pull away, but he also is not making a move. 

So Mycroft asks, “May I kiss you, John?” 

John laughs, vibrantly. “Yes.” 

That is permission, but still Mycroft only moves towards him gradually. John’s arms wrap around his back, and only then Mycroft tilts his head and meets John in a soft kiss. It is just a touch of their lips, warm and fleeting, but enough to make the sense of arousal pulse brightly. 

John leans in again and presses his lips a little harder, a stroke of tongue that is blisteringly good, stilling his breath… and then leans away slowly. 

Mycroft feels as if his mind has stalled for a moment. He steps back. 

Sherlock is still absent. It takes a couple more seconds before Violet runs into the room, dressed in a shirt and trousers now. And while nothing is disturbed between them - they were no longer touching - Mycroft still feels as if Violet’s arrival ends the moment. 

Sherlock walks out soon after, and Mycroft meets his eyes, wondering how much he can deduce. Whether Sherlock knew that they would do this. Sherlock is the one on higher ground, here. The one apart from this emotion and tension, the one who can look at it logically and take a step back. 

Mycroft can only long for that sort of control.

 

 

 

 

 


	82. (John)

 

 

John is officially unemployed now. 

They took a case already, and Sherlock has a bunch more in his inbox. Most are too easy, but John’s pleased to have them anyway. He doesn’t have to worry about his leave anymore, so they can just pick one when Mrs. Hudson wants to babysit. 

For now, it’s good being home. John’s getting the chance to play with Violet and to relax with Sherlock - it feels like a holiday. And dammit, John needed one. He’s not even sure why he worked as a GP for as long as he did since he never really liked it all that much. Maybe they can get by with just cases after this, or he can find work somewhere else. Either way, he’s not going to start until after the baby’s here, which feels like an eternity right now. 

John texts Mycroft from bed at nine AM on a Thursday morning, with Sherlock softly snoring next to him, “You should try this unemployment thing, it’s glorious. JW” 

Mycroft replies, “It suits you, then? MH” 

“I think so. For now at least. JW” John feels a bit weird texting him and not mentioning anything about, well. Mycroft asked whether he could kiss him, and that was… yeah. John smiles, remembering it. He sends, “More time to think about kissing you. JW” 

John’s a bit curious about his reply. Mycroft did full-on ask, and they did blow each other earlier, it’s not like they’re not clear on this. But still, John feels a tad like some schoolboy asking out a crush or something. 

Especially when Mycroft writes, “It has been on my mind as well. MH”

John smiles. He glances at Sherlock, still asleep, and thinks about it. He has time today, doesn’t he? He could go to the Diogenes Club and offer to do it again. Or somewhere else, doesn’t matter. “I could come by today? JW” 

Even just thinking about it, John feels the familiar prickle of interest - he’d _love_ to get laid. Or just oral, whatever Mycroft’s fine with. John is not going to push him on that. But he wants it badly, it feels like they’ve been waiting for forever. 

By the time the reply comes, John’s about ready to throw his clothes on and offer Mycroft a blowjob behind his desk right this second. But it says, “Perhaps you could come by tonight? 10PM. MH” 

John grins. Oh, that’s more than a quickie in an office, isn’t it? He’s so absorbed in replying, “Yes, great! JW” that he doesn’t notice Sherlock’s awake until he sits up. 

“You’re smiling.” Sherlock’s voice always sounds rough first thing in the morning. John loves hearing it like that. Sherlock’s hair is all messed up from sleeping, too, he really gets epic bed head. John wants to ruffle his hand through it. 

He doesn’t. 

Instead, he says, “I’ve got a…” date? No, that’s not it, is it? “I’m seeing Mycroft. Tonight.” John’s not sure if Sherlock will be annoyed by that. “We’re not going out or anything. I’ll go to his at ten. That okay?” John’s willing to call it off. He doesn’t _want_ to, but he would.

Sherlock looks him over and says, “The prospect arouses you.” 

John feels a stab of shame. God, how does he even _know_ that? It’s not like he has a raging boner under the sheets here or something like that. “Well, yeah, it’ll be…” John’s not sure whether to actually say it. 

“Sex.” Sherlock has no problem with saying that, apparently. He frowns. “Be careful.” 

“What? Seriously?” John almost laughs. “Is this the ‘use protection’ speech?” From _Sherlock?_

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “No, physically. You should not put too much weight on his stomach.” He seems to think about it. “I’m not certain if you should use a condom. Is there an etiquette?” 

He’s asking so plainly that John can’t help but laugh. “I… yeah, I don’t know. Probably?” 

Sherlock nods. “Hm.” 

Sherlock gets up and wanders to the living room, so John texts, “Told Sherlock I’m coming over tonight. JW” Just in case Mycroft’s wondering. It seems like the thing to do, anyway. Tell him. 

 

-

 

John showers, has breakfast, and puts a plate with a slice of buttered toast and a mug of tea next to Sherlock, who’s doing some in-depth thing with his laptop and doesn’t even look up. 

John assumes that maybe Sherlock needs some space from the whole ‘going to have sex tonight’ thing, so he doesn’t bother him. He just eats his own breakfast in silence while Sherlock lets his go cold. 

Until - and god help him, John should have known this - Sherlock turns to him and says, “I emailed you a list of sex positions that are considered to be safe during pregnancy. Also, you should use a condom unless you were both tested recently. Mycroft is fine and you were tested before the donation, so that should be sufficient if you prefer to go without.” 

John can’t even speak for a moment, processing all that. “…Okay?” 

“Good.” Sherlock clicks on to the next thing, whatever it is that he’s researching. 

John, after a couple of minutes, does give in and check his email to see what Sherlock sent him. The list is impressively extensive. Sherlock seems to think that they’ll have a whole lot more energy and flexibility than John’s assuming they will, because some of those positions seem fit only for porn stars, and even then, only the rather ambitious ones. 

John texts Mycroft, ready to share his pain. “Sherlock just emailed me SEX TIPS. I don’t even know what to say to that. JW”

Mycroft replies, “He forwarded them to me as well. I made the mistake of opening his email during a meeting with the Prime Minister. MH”

John leans back on the sofa and laughs until his stomach feels like it’s in a knot - _how is this his life?!_ Sherlock looks up from his laptop to see what the matter is, and John tells him, “You’re insane, and I love you.” 

Sherlock seems taken aback, but he replies, seriously, “I love you, too, John.”

John believes it. He’s never been loved like this, ever, and he’s not sure there’s a way to define any of this because it’s all so strange, but he believes it’s love. He does. 

 

-

 

At ten that night, John is in front of Mycroft’s door. He doesn’t need to ring the doorbell, because Sherlock gave him his key. John’s had it in his pocket the whole way here, turning it over and over in his hand. 

After a bit of fiddling with the lock, John manages to put in the alarm code that Sherlock forced him to memorise and open the door without setting off any alarms. He steps inside. He’d like to call out, but since Violet’s asleep somewhere upstairs, he probably shouldn’t. John walks to the library, feeling rather conspicuous about just walking in here, but the door is standing open. 

Mycroft looks up from behind his desk. 

He looks great, John thinks. Mycroft’s not wearing a jacket, just his waistcoat. His sleeves are rolled up, showing his bare forearms, just like that one afternoon in the park. John can remember seeing his freckles and feeling amused. Something more, too - _privileged_ , that he knew that about him. 

Mycroft smiles at him, looking just on the edge of nervous. “Good evening, John.” 

“Hi.”

John’s not sure if they need any sort of lead-up to this, or... 

Mycroft gets up, his long, pregnant body outlined perfectly by the tailoring of his clothes, and John can’t entirely believe that they’re actually doing this again. He wants to kiss him, but Mycroft says, “Would you like to go upstairs?” 

“Of course, yeah, that’s... good.” 

Mycroft leads the way into the hall, then up the stairs. Something about him seems a bit unsure tonight. John always assumed Mycroft would be cold and distant like this, but getting to know him better has changed that. John thinks that he’s actually a lot more anxious than people tend to see.

“Would you mind if I check on Violet first?”

“No, ‘course not.” John follows him in, a bit curious. He’s never seen Violet’s room. 

Violet has pushed her covers away and is lying sprawled on top of them, dressed in dinosaur-printed pyjamas. She’s breathing evenly, lit by the light of a purple nightlight that projects slowly-moving stars onto the wall. 

For some reason, John had always assumed that Violet’s room here would be rather dull. Maybe like Mycroft’s library, grand and expensive, sure, but not really suited for kids. Instead, John can see cuddly toys everywhere, a collection of trains, a bookcase stuffed with children’s books, and there is a whole forest of trees and birds painted onto the wall. John’s not sure if Mycroft paid a designer some hefty sum to make this room child-appropriate, but looking at all the bird themes, he thinks that Mycroft must have had a hand in it at least. That he did this for her. 

Mycroft pulls the blanket back over Violet, and tells him quietly, “She still has difficulty falling asleep some days. She was crying until half an hour ago.” 

Yeah, John knows all about that. Even between both Sherlock and him, it can take hours to get her to sleep sometimes. 

They walk out of her room, and Mycroft eyes him, then turns in the other direction. Right. 

Mycroft opens the door to a very large, pristine bedroom. There’s an impressive bed in the middle of it. Some low lighting from a lamp on the side table. Mycroft looks at him. “I believe that this is what you intended with coming here?”

It’s a question. John feels a bit cheap going straight here actually, to the bedroom. But trust Mycroft to get down to it. “Yeah, if you…” John licks his lips. “If you want to. It’s… anything you want, really.” 

Mycroft smiles at him. “ _Anything_ , John?” 

It’s more a tease than anything else, but John risks, “Unless you have any strange kinks I should know about?” 

Mycroft replies, “Not that I am aware of, but then one can argue about the definition of ‘strange’.” 

John grins, steps towards him, and kisses him. 

There’s not a moment of hesitation. Mycroft immediately kisses him back, and it feels intense straight away. John fists his hand in the back of Mycroft’s waistcoat, Mycroft moans into his mouth, and it just pierces him, how much he _wants_ this. 

John tries to open some of Mycroft’s buttons, fails, then says, “Want you out of these clothes.” 

Mycroft helps get his waistcoat off, but then John has to kiss him again, a bright burst of lips and heat. Their hands bump and tangle and Mycroft says, something indulgent and amused in his voice that John hasn’t heard often but he wants to hear a whole lot more of, “This will go faster if I do it, John.” 

John lets go. “Yes, sure, right.”

John gets his own trousers open and shoves them down instead, then touches Mycroft’s cock as soon as he can. John kisses him again. He can’t seem to stop. John walks them both backwards to the bed, but when the back of his legs hit the bed frame, he doesn’t pull Mycroft down over him – he normally would have, but John remembers Sherlock’s words, be careful – so instead he stops for a moment to crawl onto the mattress, and Mycroft follows him. 

John toes his shoes off and lets them drop to the floor, then pulls Mycroft in for another kiss. Kissing while lying down is a whole different feeling, and John is enjoying the hell out of it. Mycroft’s fingers reach his cock and touch him as they kiss. He trails his hand there, then jerks him off in earnest. Mycroft’s partially leaning over him to reach and John can feel himself getting close already - Jesus, he could come in under a minute here. “Stop, stop!” 

Mycroft does, and John laughs into his neck. “God, sorry, it’s just been…” Well, since last time. Which hasn’t even been two weeks, but it’s been a frustrating, heated two weeks. 

John can feel Mycroft tremble as he lies down next to him. “I am aware.” 

John’s pretty sure that Mycroft’s not far behind, actually. John laughs again. “This is going to be over quick, isn’t it?” Mycroft feels so good against him, John’s whole body is pulsing with it. John takes Mycroft’s cock in his hand and runs his thumb over the head just to see what that does to his face, how it makes his mouth open and his head fall back. “You’re gorgeous.” 

Mycroft blinks at that, then frowns at him as if he is prepared to argue the point. 

John just kisses him again - short, heated kisses, he doesn’t have the focus for anything else while he rubs himself against Mycroft’s hip, trying to get more friction and also trying not to get off yet. Neither of them are even undressed. John’s pants are pushed down to his knees, and he thought this would be civilised but it’s not at all, it’s just rutting on a bed. 

They kiss again, open-mouthed and messy. John is moving his hips back and forth, their hands are tangling and bumping as they’re getting each other off. It’s sweaty and slick and awkward and Mycroft’s stomach is in the way, but god, John doesn’t care. Mycroft’s clearly into it too, he is breathing heavily and his cock is slick in John’s hand. 

John asks, into Mycroft’s ear, “You want to come in my hand, or my mouth?” 

Mycroft, after a soft inhale, says, “...Your hand. Please.” 

John manoeuvres his other hand between them, too. He finds Mycroft’s balls already drawn close to his body, then lets his fingers explore further. John looks at Mycroft to gauge whether he’s allowed to go there, but Mycroft’s eyes flutter closed. John traces between his arse cheeks and teases him a little, then fingers the edge of his arsehole, curiously feeling the wetness there. Jesus. He’s with _an omega_. It’s not like John didn’t know that, but to feel it... 

Mycroft’s hands on John have fallen slack, but John doesn’t mind. He pushes a finger _in_ , just a bit, just a little. Then another. He holds two fingers there, puts pressure where he knows it’ll feel good, and with his other hand he pulls him off at the same time.

Mycroft is actually shaking now. John presses a quick kiss to his lips and says, “Come on, yes…”

Mycroft tenses around his fingers, shudders, then starts to come. John pulls him through it. He moves his fingers inside of Mycroft, makes it last as long as he can for him as Mycroft’s come spurts onto his hand. The sight of it, the thought of where his hand is - John could get off from this alone, slowly rubbing himself onto Mycroft’s side. 

But he gradually stops moving, then pulls his hand back completely. 

Mycroft slowly opens his eyes, and looks at him with a hint of shame. Because he came like that? John doesn’t know. Mycroft looks great like this though, flushed and freshly shagged. John asks, “Good?”

Mycroft swallows. “Yes. Thank you.” Then he immediately puts his hand on John’s erection again. 

John approves. He pulls Mycroft over him a little, then kisses him. It’s uncoordinated, and John can feel Mycroft’s knuckles brush his stomach as he fists him just a tad too loosely, but this, god, to be _touched_ , it’s all he wants. John’s pretty much there already. He tries to hold back, to enjoy it just a moment more, but Mycroft’s hand is building such a good rhythm that John can’t do anything but bury his face into Mycroft’s neck and give in. He comes all over Mycroft’s hand.

God. 

John catches his breath. 

Then meets Mycroft’s eyes. _Well._ John smiles, and Mycroft gives him a mild smile back. That was good. Too fast, probably. Not really what he’d been going for. John had imagined something a bit more, well, naked. But he’s not really had sex like this in forever either, wanting someone too much to bother with undressing. 

Mycroft’s shirt has risen up over his stomach, and John feels his warm skin. It’s nice. He lets his hand trace the curve down until he finds a long, thin scar right at the base of his stomach. It’s from his C-section, John traces his fingers over it. “From Violet?” 

“Yes.” Mycroft is letting him touch, but he seems reluctant now. “I imagine that it is not particularly appealing.” 

It is, actually. To feel this. John leans closer and kisses him. It’s soft, just a goodbye, but Mycroft seems surprised. 

John says, “Thanks.”

“…Why?” Mycroft sounds unsure. 

“I had fun.” John grins. “Too much, probably.” He’s still _wearing his jumper_. His trousers and pants are tangled around his knees, and splattered with come. He’s a mess.

Mycroft looks down at the state of his clothes as well. “Yes, I believe that we were rather rambunctious.”

John jokes, “I’ll get you out of those clothes next time.”

Mycroft smiles back lightly, but he doesn’t say anything. 

John’s not sure if that’s because Mycroft’s hesitant to commit to a next time, or what. But he lies back for a minute more anyway, too wiped out to deal with getting cleaned up yet. 

John brushes his hand against Mycroft’s, too. 

Mycroft doesn’t pull away when he tangles their fingers.

 

 

 

 

 


	83. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock thought that John might stay at Mycroft’s all night. But John walks up the stairs at - Sherlock checks the time on his phone - seventeen minutes to midnight. 

John walks in, gets out of his jacket and scarf, and says, “Cup of tea?”

“Yes.” Sherlock agrees, not because he particularly wants tea, but because John wants to offer it to him. 

He walks into the kitchen. John has already turned the kettle on and is leaning against the counter. Sherlock scans John and can see the tell-tale indicators of recent sex all over him. John’s clothes are obscenely wrinkled and his lips are redder than they were. There is something in the line of his shoulders that suggests he is pleased, as well. Relaxed. 

Sherlock leans close enough to smell - under a chemical layer of soap - the scent of sex, and omega. _His_ omega, Sherlock feels a flare of possessiveness at it that he can’t remember from smelling anyone else on John. 

John eyes him. “You all right?”

“I can _smell_ him.” 

John’s eyebrows rise. “Oh, god. That’s…” He looks down at himself. “Sorry, I did wash a bit, but yeah, I should have…” He looks to the bathroom. “You want me to shower?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “I already knew it was him.” It’s not like he doesn’t know what John has been doing. Actually, the smell is intriguing. It’s raw and somewhat sweet. 

But John looks disturbed. “So you can tell the difference…?” 

“Between the omega I am bonded to and someone else?” Of course he can.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s probably…” John eyes the bathroom again. “Look, have some tea, I’ll have a shower, all right?” 

And he’s gone. Sherlock makes himself a cup of tea while still not actually wanting any. Then he pours it down the drain while he listens to John’s shower run, still thinking about it. The trace of the scent bugs him. It pulls him in and it makes him want to lean on John, breathe him in and find out where the scent is strongest. 

Sherlock goes to bed. When John comes in and lies down next to him, he smells overpoweringly like shampoo and their shared shower gel. It’s almost a shame. Sherlock searches for his reaction to it and can’t find it. _Ownership._

 

-

 

The next day, Mycroft sends him a text that Sherlock is disinclined to read, thinking it’s about John. But when he does read it, it says, “Father wants us to visit. Violet as well. What do you want to do? M”

Sherlock’s surprised that Mycroft would bother to ask his opinion. “Why are you asking me? SH” 

“Because this is partially your decision. M” 

Mycroft always blamed Father for not arguing with Mummy, for not _doing_ anything. But Sherlock never felt the same. And Father’s living there alone now. Sherlock thinks about it, then sends, “We should go. SH” 

 

-

 

It’s almost Christmas, and this year they’ve done more in preparation than ever before. 

They put up a large tree and decorated it to a ridiculous degree. There is greenery everywhere and fake snow on the windows in patterns that John sprayed with Violet. And a nativity scene, which Violet keeps on stealing various characters from, yesterday Sherlock found Joseph tucked under a pile of towels in the bathroom and the day before it was the baby Jesus in his shoe. There have been daily occurrences of baking as well, most recently gingerbread baubles, a marzipan wreath, and custard mince pies. And singing, even John can sing various Christmas carols from memory, Sherlock has heard him do it. Violet is having a blast. So is Mrs. Hudson, fluttering around, tidying, adding something else that she ‘just picked up’. 

Judging by Mycroft’s face, it’s clear that he thinks they’ve gone completely insane. But he does admit, “Violet seems to enjoy it.” 

Sherlock sits in the living room in the evenings with the fire lit, the Christmas lights blinking, and John pouring him a brandy and sitting just close enough that their feet occasionally touch. 

It’s wonderful. 

He googles ‘Christmas activities with children London’, and they take Violet to a pantomime that she severely dislikes, they have to leave fifteen minutes in. Next they attempt to see an ice sculpture that doesn’t interest her at all, but makes John say ‘wow, that’s amazing.’ They try a ‘winter wonderland’ as well, where Violet spends a good hour playing in the fake snow with other children before it’s all too much, she has a very public breakdown that involves a litany of ‘no no no nooo!’, a bright red face, snot and tears. 

They go out for hot chocolate, then stop to listen to some buskers on the way because Violet runs up to them and starts to dance along with the music. As they watch her, John takes his hand.

Sherlock gets an excited text from Molly, “You’re right, he asked me! We’re getting married!” He answers her, “Congratulations, Molly. SH”

John goes out with Lestrade for a pint to celebrate and doesn’t come home until two in the morning, humming carols and stinking of beer when he crawls into bed and puts his cold hands onto Sherlock’s back. Sherlock laughs at it, then feels surprised at himself. 

They take a couple of small cases, but mainly John seems content to be at home. John does go to Mycroft’s three more times, but he only stays away for an hour or two each time, so in all it’s much less of an investment than any of John’s previous relationships were. Sherlock doesn’t ask, and John doesn’t say much about it, except that Sherlock can read the satisfaction all over him. 

They go ice-skating with Violet, her sitting on a contraption they can push around the rink, and both Sherlock and John on skates. John is proficient at it, and he pushes her with economic, practiced strides. Sherlock himself has never tried ice-skating before but after observing how it was done, he had assumed it to be a simple matter of physics. 

It is not.

John laughs all the way home about Sherlock’s fall in the middle of the rink. Sherlock flushes, and the bruises throb. It’s helped by John’s careful doctoring afterwards, and the way he grins comfortingly for the rest of the evening every time Sherlock winces. 

 

-

 

The Sunday before Christmas, Mycroft walks up the stairs - and it’s almost funny how much easier it is to hear him coming now. It’s not just the extra weight of pregnancy, but he’s less sure on his feet somehow. Sherlock refrains from commenting on it, because today is it. 

They’re visiting Father. 

John had said, “All right, sure,” when Sherlock asked him to come along. But it’s something else to file into Mycroft’s car and to actually do it. Go home. 

The drive is long. As London changes into a densely populated spread of streets, and then further out, the occasional field, Sherlock focuses on Violet. He reads her story after story, then stares out the window as she naps. 

He meets Mycroft’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, once. Sherlock looks away. 

He wants to do this, at least. It’s Mycroft who’d rather forget where they come from altogether. 

Mycroft is wearing one of his sternest suits, dark with pinstripes and a red tie. He’s dressed for battle, Sherlock knows. Mycroft hasn’t dressed Violet in anything special yet, but he takes out a bag when they’re fifteen minutes out and hands it to him, “Can you change her?” 

It’s the same style of dress she was in a couple of weeks ago but, prudently, with matching tights this time. 

John helps, and between them they get a protesting Violet dressed. She’s already thrown several tantrums and is whining. She is not used to being strapped into a car for that long, never mind not being allowed to play. 

The driver turns into the driveway, and Mycroft says, distantly, “I believe an hour will be enough.” The driver nods, but stays silent. 

Mycroft gets out, walks around the car to Violet’s side, and takes Violet in his arms. 

Sherlock can feel a curling sense of unease while walking up the path, uncertain of its cause. John walks close to him and, oh - takes his hand. Sherlock glances at it with some surprise. 

Into battle.

 

 

 

 

 


	84. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft agreed with Sherlock on the principle that Father should be allowed to meet Violet. But now that they are actually here, Mycroft wishes for little more than to turn around again and to put Violet back in the car. 

He knows he is being overbearing and there is absolutely nothing to fear from this encounter, but still the urge is strong. 

The same for the child he has inside of him - Mycroft instinctively wants to turn away and keep the baby safe. 

He is aware that it does not make any sense. They will do this once a year around Christmas, Mycroft thinks. They will visit Father so Violet has a vague idea of who her grandfather is as she grows up. Surely they can do that. There is nothing left to prevent this. 

But still, when they are nearing the door, Mycroft holds Violet himself even though it hurts his back. He knows that either John or Sherlock would gladly have taken her, but he needs to face this as who he is now, today - a father himself. 

Mycroft doesn’t need to ring the doorbell. Father is right there already, opening the door. “Hello!” 

“Father.” He has aged, Mycroft thinks. He has been fully grey for at least a decade, but he seems shorter, now. Frailer than the man in his memory. 

“Come in, come in!” 

Father’s smile is shaky, and he seems to be brimming with some barely suppressed emotion at seeing them. He always was like that. ‘Simple’, Mummy used to call him. Father was always the example of what they weren’t supposed to be. And as a result, he was the one whom Mycroft despised even more than he did Mummy. At least she was trying to make him into something. Mycroft cannot remember Father doing anything more useful than hiding in the garden shed for hours on end, tending to his plants while Mummy was yelling and storming, her genius dimmed by all of them. 

Father tells them, “Sit down, the tea will be right out,” then shuffles to the kitchen.

Sherlock falls onto the sofa in an astonishing re-enactment of himself at age fourteen, but Mycroft is still standing up and holding Violet on his hip, unwilling to give in that easily. 

It still _smells_ the same in here. 

John’s hand briefly traces his back as he passes him by, in what Mycroft imagines is meant to be a calming touch, but he does not respond to it. John sits down on the sofa as well, albeit more carefully than Sherlock. 

Mycroft lets Violet down, sits himself on the edge of a chair, then pulls her on his knee. 

Father comes back with a tray rattling in his shaking hands, and John jumps up to help him. Mycroft can imagine that John sees Father as just an old, feeble, friendly man. _Can’t even carry the tea._ In truth, he is nothing more than that to Mycroft, either. Father always cared, but never in a way that was useful. 

Mycroft can’t stop him from looking at Violet with gentle, curious eyes. Father says, emotion already clouding his voice, he sounds as if he might _weep_ , “So that’s her then, Mykie? Your little girl.” And then, to Violet, “Hello! I’m your... I’m your grandfather.” 

Violet looks at him with an extremely doubtful expression, then looks back at Mycroft. Mycroft feels unwilling to let her go. But he does untangle his arm, and tells her, “Go on.” 

Violet walks around the table, then stops and stares at her grandfather. 

He reaches out his arms, and after a moment, she lets herself be pulled onto his lap. Father is looking at her as if he can’t quite believe it. “She looks just like Sherlock, when he was little.” 

“I am aware.” Mycroft realises that he sounds icy. 

Father is obviously trying as hard as he can, but it’s frustrating. He continues to spout blather that none of them are very willing to reply to. To Violet, “Oh, you’re such a lovely little girl!” To John, “Are you still a doctor, John?” To Mycroft himself, “How far along are you?” To Sherlock, “Still being a detective?” And, to top it all off, “I’m so proud of you. Both my boys!” 

Mycroft feels more than ready to leave as soon as the tea is gone. But Violet has managed to push over a picture frame not once but four times by now, and she is currently ‘drawing’ circles on the living room table with the remnants of a soggy biscuit. Father suggests, “Maybe a walk, before you go back? It’s a long time for her to sit in the car.”

He’s right. 

Mycroft looks at Sherlock - if Sherlock wants to leave immediately, they will. But Sherlock says, “Fine.”

They’re all eager to get up. Even John seems to breathe a sigh of relief, Mycroft sees. But none of them are as excited at walking out the back door and into the garden as Violet. She _squeals_ with delight when she sees some birds, then runs towards them as fast as she can. Sherlock has to speed up to catch her. 

They all walk that way. And Father, when he’s there, tells her, “See that? That’s a rose bush. Careful, it has thorns, see?” He pulls a stem down for her to touch. 

Mycroft remembers that tone from his own childhood. Father, sharing his very basic knowledge about nature. Mycroft cannot remember ever enjoying it himself, but Sherlock used to love the little walks around the garden when he was young. Mycroft allows Father to take Violet’s hand and show her the rest of the plants. He’s blabbering on while she stares at him, transfixed. 

Mycroft has never thought of the parallel, but Violet is in fact very much like both Father and Sherlock in this. She is fond of animals, plants, and being outside. It both frustrates Mycroft and, when he considers it more, settles something. Whether he acknowledges it or not, Violet is a part of all of this. These are her genes, too. 

As it goes on, Mycroft leaves them and walks off on his own. 

His hip is starting to bother him again. It was a major issue near the end of his first pregnancy and standing still in the cold seems to make it worse. 

As Mycroft expected, Sherlock joins him. 

Mycroft looks back to check on Violet, but John is still with her. If Violet cries or seems at all upset, they will get her, but right now she is giggling as Father has dug up an earthworm and is letting her touch it. 

“Deep breaths.” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “I hardly believe that breathing is the issue.” 

It’s different, without Mummy. Mycroft can still feel the tension of her here, as well as the constant state of disapproval he’s supposed to find himself in. But she’s gone.

“He hasn’t asked.” Sherlock offers. 

“He has not.” Mycroft sighs. 

Does Sherlock regret giving up the last few years of contact he could have had with Mummy? Did he do it for Violet’s sake, for Mycroft’s, or for his own? Is it just another thing bonding took from Sherlock, another sacrifice that he did not know he would be making? 

Mycroft says, already despising it as he says it, but knowing he should, “You can bring her here more often, if you wish.” 

Sherlock eyes him. “Without you.”

Yes. Definitely. Mycroft looks back at Violet, still being enthralled by the marvels of a dead and boring winter garden. “She’d like it.” It’s clearly the truth, as much as Mycroft hates saying it. In the interest of his child, he thinks. Violet has the chance to have a grandfather, now. This should be about her. 

Sherlock follows his look to Father. They’re having a conversation about dirt, as far as Mycroft can tell. “You’re a much better parent than either of them ever were.”

Mycroft looks up, stunned. It feels entirely bizarre to get such high praise from Sherlock. He answers, uncertain but willing to return the compliment to Sherlock as well, “Violet is being raised by all of us.” 

Sherlock looks at him. “Exactly.”

Sherlock goes to take Violet, and Mycroft lets his words echo in his mind while he tries to understand their meaning. Violet is a far cry from the lonely children they were, of course. She is loved and she knows it. 

Mycroft thinks about when they were here last for Christmas, four years ago. He had felt so bitter, then. So angry at the fact that he likely could not have a child of his own. He swore that if he would get a child, he would do better. 

Mycroft looks at Violet now, as she is lifted into Sherlock’s arms, and he thinks of the life within him as well. He _is_ doing better. Or he truly hopes that he is. 

 

-

 

They stay for an early dinner. Father serves them simple meat pies, then they say their goodbyes and start the drive home in the dark. It’s making the car feel smaller than it is. Safer, and warmer, to have all of them in it, winding over small country lanes and then turning back onto the motorway in the direction of London. Mycroft is entirely relieved that it is over and done with. He is tired, as well. Everything tires him these days. He slept badly the night before this, and now the warmth of the car and the repetitive movement lulls him to sleep. 

They stop twice for bathroom breaks, but even then he falls asleep again in between and only blinks awake when there is a rush of cool air as the car door is opened. 

Mycroft looks around - the car has stopped, and John has opened his door. “Come on.” 

They’re at his house. 

Mycroft looks to the backseat, but both Sherlock and Violet are gone. John says, “We stopped at Baker Street, you missed it. Violet was asleep, too. Sherlock said he’s keeping her tonight.” 

Mycroft glances at John. He does not mean to be rude to John, but this is not what he had intended. John gives him a hand up as he gets out of the car. The driver looks at them, waiting for instructions, and John says, “I think you’re done for tonight, right?”

Mycroft eyes him. It’s hardly discreet, this. But then the man is paid handsomely for his discretion. Truly, he should tell John that he might be too tired and sore for any sort of activity, but he cannot very well say so in the presence of the driver. John closes the car door, and off he goes. 

They go inside, into the cool hallway. Mycroft says, feeling a hint of guilt, “John, I am rather tired.”

John nods. “Yeah, I figured.” 

Mycroft is aware that he should try to do _something_ for John, since John clearly wants to. 

But then this will not get any better, Mycroft is afraid. He works long hours, tries to take care of Violet as much as possible in the others, and his body is over forty and over six months pregnant. 

Mycroft looks at John and wonders whether they have already come to the end of this. Or near to it. Will one rejection mean the end of their affair for John? Will two, or more? 

He decides to be clear. “I am not certain that I will be able to do more tonight.” 

John still seems unaffected. “That’s fine. I can go home if you want, but I thought I’d keep you company?” John waggles his eyebrows. “Rub your back?” 

Oh. Mycroft eyes him. He has very little idea as to how relationships like this are meant to work, or what John even wants from him, if it is not simply sexual. But John should be allowed to stay, Mycroft imagines. “Yes. Of course.” 

They walk up the stairs. 

Mycroft freshens up a bit, relieves himself - the added weight on his bladder means that he has to urinate entirely too often these days - and then undresses in the privacy of his room while John is in the bathroom. His body seems to radiate a heavy fatigue, and he simply wants to get into bed. 

After some consideration, Mycroft doesn’t dress in his pyjamas as a nod to John’s presence. Perhaps they can do something none too strenuous, if he can manage to stay awake long enough to do it. 

John comes into his room and strips off completely as well, but he does not seem to be aroused. So Mycroft gets into bed and turns onto his side. Sleep, then? If he can sleep with John here. John does not seem to question any of this. He turns the light off, gets next to him in bed, and then curls behind him. 

Mycroft starts at the skin-to-skin contact. The feeling of John’s shape so close to his is still a novel thing. 

John takes him into his arms, presses himself to his back, and sighs. “Hm.” He sounds content. 

Mycroft can feel the warmth of John’s body, and he is willing to concede that it is not unpleasant. He is not certain whether he can sleep like this, though. John presses a hand to his back, right where it always seems to ache these days, and rubs slow circles. “Right there, yeah?”

Mycroft enjoys the pressure. “...Yes.” 

Actually, now that he is relaxing more, he can feel himself linger in the appeal of it. John here, in his bed. Mycroft turns his head and faces John in the near-dark, then searches for his lips. John kisses him slowly. He keeps on rubbing his back, but then spreads his hands to his thighs, over his stomach, and under it. Mycroft can feel a deep, warm rise that surprises him. 

John asks, “Maybe something after all?” He sounds somewhat fatigued himself, perhaps, but pleased at Mycroft’s reaction.

And all their couplings have been so riled up in heat and touch, before, that this feels like a whole different world. 

Mycroft has felt John’s mouth on him several times by now, as John has his. They have tumbled into bed together, used their hands and mouths on each other to great effect. Mycroft has been waiting for John to ask for more, but other than carefully trailing his fingers _there_ , he has not. 

Mycroft can feel himself yearn for it. For John to touch him there again. More, perhaps as well. 

So after a few minutes more of John massaging him and an indolent series of kisses, Mycroft bends a leg and presses himself back into John’s hand, more adventurous than he has been before, clearer, in this dark cocoon of sheets. 

John understands what he is asking for, and John’s fingers move lower and lower until they trace between his arse cheeks, making him shudder unintentionally. John can feel it, too, as his fingers find the slick arousal there and spread it around slowly. One finger, around, around. Another. The two push in, and leave again. 

It’s completely dark and silent except for their breathing, and time seems to fade in and out as Mycroft can feel nothing but John’s fingers and the pleasure they’re pulling out of him. 

The heat builds between them slowly. John pushes the covers off. John’s erection is poking hard into his back, now, and Mycroft spasms. The sensation of a man’s arousal pressing right there is such a pleasure, he is practically _dripping_ with arousal. Mycroft says, lowly, aware that he has wanted this for so very long, “You can do it, John.” 

John asks, “Really? You want me to?” 

Yes. Yes, he wants to be taken by John. To be _filled_. Mycroft tilts his back towards John, and John slowly, carefully slides his erection between his arse cheeks. There is a sharp pressure as John breaches him, then Mycroft can feel a wave of pleasure that has him cry out, “Oh!”

John breathes out slowly, his breath tickling Mycroft’s shoulder. “That nice?”

“Yes.” Mycroft can feel goose bumps over all of him. He hasn’t let himself be breached by a man in years because it is all-encompassing. Even now, he cannot think, he can feel only this, there is only the slick need of it.

John pushes in again, harder. He makes it faster, but the angle is not the best, not enough.

Mycroft turns to lean on his hands and knees. He is too far gone now to care what John might think, or how it might make him look. He simply needs it. John lines up behind him and then pushes in like that, making both of them cry out. Mycroft can _hear_ the slick suction of himself, he can feel it smear and spread between them as John moves. He tries to take John deeper. Mycroft feverishly tilts his hips so he can have _more_. 

John wraps a hand around Mycroft’s erection, saying, “Oh god, this is amazing…” 

Mycroft can feel the deep waves pulse through him as John hits him right where he needs. He groans at the fullness, takes it again and again, rapidly being driven closer to surrender. Mycroft meets him in one more thrust, and then his whole body contracts around John’s erection as he reaches orgasm and spurts into John’s hand, barely able to breathe through how overwhelmingly good it feels. 

John sounds distant as he says, “Oh wow, yes!” and thrusts even harder. Mycroft hangs his head and is nearly pushed off his knees with the force of him. He enjoys those strokes even more, being fully taken, the remnants of his orgasm still shuddering through him. John stutters in his thrusts, then makes a low sound as he comes inside of him. 

John stays there for only a moment, then pulls out. 

Mycroft feels entirely empty now. There is a mild burning there. He turns around on the bed, aware of his trembling arms and knees - he is not used to this position at all. He gets up as smoothly as he can manage, and walks out of the room on dangerously shaking legs. His penis is still hard. 

The bright bathroom light feels overly intrusive when he turns it on. Mycroft avoids looking at his obscenely flushed face, and washes himself thoroughly, then goes back. John takes his turn, and Mycroft waits for him lying on top of the sheets, while his body is slowly cooling down. When John comes back into the bed, he pulls the covers over the both of them, leans over him and gives him a brief kiss. “That was great.”

Mycroft’s eyes are falling closed. The sheets feel comforting on his bare skin, and he can hear his own voice say, “Please take no offence John, but I am going to fall asleep within minutes.” 

John laughs. It’s the last thing he hears.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter two thirds of the story are now posted! Like last time, I am going to take a little break in posting to give myself, my beta, and my Brit-picker some time to breathe and to get ahead of the story again. Thank you all so much for your continuing support, and ~~I will be back with chapter 85 on Saturday the 18th of March.~~
> 
> Edit: My beta has had a very busy time, so I've had to postpone posting, **chapter 85 will be posted on Saturday the 1st of April**. I'm sorry for the delay. 
> 
> Indy <3


	85. (John)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and we're back! *g*

 

 

John wakes up when Mycroft’s alarm goes at six thirty in the morning. 

He blinks away sleep and slowly realises where the hell he is. He slept a lot better than he thought he would here, actually. But then the sex might have had something to do with it. John stretches, turns around, and sees Mycroft’s frown.

Mycroft says, “John.” And then, “Good morning.”

He’s not much for the morning after, John assumes. So he sits up and prepares to grab his clothes to leave. “You have to go to work?” 

Mycroft seems briefly comforted by the idea. “Yes.” He sits up himself, but slowly. He holds onto the side of his bed for a moment. 

“Dizzy?”

Mycroft looks back at him. “I always tend to be first thing in the morning. It can be highly annoying when Violet cries.” 

John feels a flash of worry. “You have your blood pressure checked?” 

“I did. I am perfectly fine.” To prove it, Mycroft stands up, and John is treated to the lovely lines of his shoulders, back, arse and legs. And as Mycroft turns to him, the lush curve of his pregnant stomach and his cock underneath. John can barely believe when looking at him that they had sex last night. He had _that_. 

Mycroft is clutching a dressing gown and quickly disappears into it. John thinks that he looks utterly delicious like this, but he’s defensive after sex, John remembers. It’s the first time John’s slept over, too, so it doesn’t have to be any weirder than it already is - John takes his pants and changes the topic. “Right, I’ll see you tonight, and then the day after is Christmas Eve. You’ll be there at seven?” 

Mycroft pauses on his way out the door. “Yes, of course.”

“Okay.” John quickly pulls on his trousers. “It’s fine, you get ready. I’ll let myself out.”

Mycroft briefly hesitates, as if he knows that there should be more – a kiss, at least, John thinks – but he nods. “Yes.” He looks at him with an emotion John can’t name. “Have a good day, John.”

There’s a million things John can think of to say to that - he’s bound to have a good day after sex like that, isn’t he? But what he says is, “You too.” 

And then, fuck it, John walks over to Mycroft and kisses him. _There._ He smiles. 

Mycroft looks him over as if he’s startled, and then smiles as well. “Goodbye, John.”

He did this one right, John thinks. Absolutely. 

He wants to do this again and again.

 

-

 

As he said he would, John lets himself out of Mycroft’s front door. It’s early morning still, so it’s dark out and icy cold. He wraps his coat around himself. He knows he’s bound to get home before Sherlock is even awake, depending on how good of a night Violet had, so John stops at a bakery on the way. He buys some freshly baked croissants and pain au chocolats with a grin. 

When John lets himself into 221b, he can see a sliver of light coming from under Mrs. Hudson’s door as well as hear her radio - she’s having her morning coffee, probably - so he knocks. “Mrs. Hudson? It’s me.”

She opens the door in her flowery nightgown and purple slippers. “John! What are you doing up so early?” 

John takes two pastries out of his bag and puts them on her table. “Here, morning delivery.” 

“Ah, thank you.” Her eyes glitter. “Spent the night somewhere else, did you?”

John sees no harm in telling her. “Just Mycroft’s.” He feels pretty great, actually. “No one else anymore.” 

She nods. “That’s good, dear, I don’t think Sherlock liked the others.” Then adds, as John is making his way out the door, “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Sharing you with his bonded. Sherlock always was too loving, you know. He cares too much.” 

John ignores what else she might want to say by walking out. “Well, enjoy breakfast.”

He walks up the stairs and to the living room, where Sherlock looks entirely adorable lying on the sofa with Violet. She’s fast asleep, but Sherlock opens his eyes as soon as John walks in, so John holds up his bag of pastries and whispers, “Breakfast?” 

Sherlock carefully extracts himself from the sofa and joins John in the kitchen. Sherlock’s still in his pyjamas. His hair is a mess, and his face looks pale in the morning light, but still John can feel it bubble up in him, that feeling, _god_ , he adores him. John reaches out and wraps his arms around Sherlock, just for a second, as he mumbles, “Love you.” He really does. All of it, Violet sleeping on the sofa, the croissants in the paper bag, this bloody freezing December morning, it’s all perfect. 

Sherlock, as ever, seems amazed to hear John say it. It’s a good look on him, John thinks. He should say it more often, really. Repeat it until Sherlock doesn’t seem shocked anymore and instead just smiles as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

They eat together mostly in silence, but with their knees occasionally touching. 

And then Violet wakes up, and the rest of the day isn’t nearly as quiet. 

 

-

 

Both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson are into the Christmas Eve food preparation mood by now, talking fruitcake recipes and which drinks to buy. John just stays out of the way and then dutifully does the shopping when asked, even when he has to go back twice to an overcrowded mess of a shop because he didn’t buy the right type of sugar the first time around. 

But then on the night itself, John looks around their living room and he’s actually impressed. It’s more than a bit on the tacky side this year, with blinking lights all over, sparkles and baubles and strings and greenery, but it looks great. 

John grins at Sherlock, who’s in a new suit, and says, “Best Christmas yet, yeah?” 

He means it generally, in a ‘look at those decorations’ sort of way, but Sherlock says, “I am very happy as well, John.” 

John swallows the feeling of that, too. Finally, yeah? _Finally_ they’re somewhere good, together. Looking back, he has no idea how they even got here, but dammit, it was worth it. 

John stops thinking about it when there’s the sound of a key being turned in the lock downstairs and the door opens. They both go down to help Mycroft. Sherlock takes Violet in his arms, John carries the wine Mycroft brought, and he gives Mycroft a quick, pleased smile. And yes, okay, a look over when Mycroft takes off his coat and his suit is doing all the right things - John has to talk himself down a bit. They’ll have sex again soon enough. 

Mrs. Hudson opens the door for Molly and Greg, and John goes down as well to help Mrs. Hudson bring the fruitcake up. It’s a whirlwind of hellos and coats and laughter, Molly’s perfume and the scent of baking, Violet’s spit-covered kisses, then presents being put under the tree, the champagne poured... and then they’re all sitting down and talking over each other. 

Molly shows off her engagement ring and tells Mrs. Hudson, “We’re going to elope.”

Greg smiles at her, obviously besotted. “Yeah, I’ve done it all before, and Molly doesn’t want a big party. So, Las Vegas, baby!” 

John can see Sherlock’s face fall. “When?” 

“We’re leaving in two days!” Molly says it with a squeak of excitement.

John strains to hear what Sherlock says next because Mrs. Hudson has asked Greg where they’re going exactly and is giving him advice about the slot machines, but the next thing he hears Sherlock say to Molly is, “...not even going to wear a bridal gown? Why not?!”

Which would sound bizarre coming from Sherlock, if it wasn’t for Sherlock planning a wedding before. The memory of that still stings - the wedding venue, the waltz. _The bridesmaids in lilac._ John looks at Sherlock and realises that he’d probably been looking forward to helping Molly organise it. 

Molly’s stopped talking, her enthusiasm clearly tempered by Sherlock’s reaction, so John says, “Molly, can you come and help me in the kitchen?”

She seems taken aback to be asked. And to be honest, John doesn’t actually have a thing to do in the kitchen, it’s all Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock on that front, but Molly gets up and follows him. John turns to her as soon as they’re out of earshot, and he was right - she is upset. 

She says, “I thought people…” _Sherlock_ , “would like it, why is he so…” She frowns. 

John says, “He wanted to help you plan it.” 

Molly looks at him. “Really?” 

Oh yes, John’s sure of it. “He was a menace with mine. Trust me, he was going to go full-on wedding planner if you wanted one.”

“Oh.” She seems pensive. “It’s just, I don’t have a lot of family, or, um, friends, really. And it’s Greg’s third wedding, and I don’t really want to, you know, stand up there, so I’m not going to… I don’t want to do that?” 

“That’s fine.” John says. “He’s just disappointed right now. He’ll get over it.” 

Molly nods, and John watches her go deftly corner Sherlock, talk to him, and then give him a brief hug that makes him look wide-eyed and startled. 

John shakes his head. He’ll never fully get Sherlock and why he’s even into all of that, but it’s sort of adorable in a strange way. John never cared one way or another, but Sherlock threw him the best wedding he possibly could. Sherlock tries so hard to decorate for Christmas and for Violet’s birthday too, time and time again. 

John finds Mycroft, who is keeping away a bit from the crowd as always, and leans into him just a little as he asks, “Was he always like this?” He nods to Sherlock. “Fond of Christmas?” 

“Oh, yes.” Mycroft smiles, and his whole face changes with the memory. “I believe I might have had something to do with that - I tried to play Santa until he was six and he built a trap for me.” 

John laughs. Then looks at him. “You want anything?” 

“No, thank you.” Mycroft subtly touches John’s side, just for a moment. 

It’s better than a kiss.

 

 

 

 

 


	86. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock watches everyone as the party winds down. 

Violet is lying on the sofa with her head in Mrs. Hudson’s lap. There’s a flush high on her cheeks, and she’s curling one hand by her ear. Her bare feet – she got rid of most of her clothes one way or another through the evening – are kicking Lestrade’s thigh as she struggles not to fall asleep. 

They opened the presents first, so there is a sea of wrapping paper on the carpet. There are nearly burned down candles flickering the last of their light, and a collection of half-drunk glasses of wine and champagne, as well as plates of Mrs. Hudson’s fruit cake.

Lestrade has his arm around Molly, clearly feeling proud of her accepting his long overdue wedding proposal. He seems to be glowing, and so is she. 

Sherlock, as he looks at them, thinks that he understands the feeling. A person showing that they want you in return is astonishing, for the few times John has done it to him. 

Mycroft has spent most of the night leaning back in a chair with a hand on his stomach, occasionally looking after Violet and attentively listening to Sherlock’s violin music, but otherwise not engaging too much. He’s had some quiet conversations with everyone present, but Sherlock can feel him counting down the hours until he can go home. 

Sherlock thought that all the presents were given, but Mycroft gets up, goes to his bag, and gets out a small package. He gives it to John, who seems surprised. “John, I believe you asked for this.” 

John laughs loudly - he’s already well on his way to being buzzed and alcohol tends to up his volume - and accepts it. “I did?”

Mycroft seems timid for a moment. “Some time ago.” 

John opens it. His face changes when he sees what it is - an umbrella. A simple, foldable model. Expensive, but nothing too extravagant, as far as Sherlock can see. But John smiles a secretive smile, looks at Mycroft, stands, and kisses him briefly on the mouth. 

Sherlock feels a brush of jealousy seeing it, although he’s not sure if it’s about the kiss, or just John’s face at getting a present. Sherlock didn’t get him a gift. They never give each other Christmas presents. Worse, though, he can see Molly glance at him immediately with an expression full of compassion. 

Lestrade coughs and laughs, seemingly thinking it’s _funny_ , the two of them kissing. He asks, “So, what is it? An umbrella?”

Mrs. Hudson is smiling kindly at the two of them as she says, “I’ve been telling you you should get one, John!” 

But Molly’s eyes are knowing. They always are. Sherlock makes certain to smile and appear all right. 

He is, really. 

Best Christmas ever, John said. 

 

-

 

Molly and Lestrade leave soon after, leaning close enough together that it’s obvious what they’ll do as soon as they’re home, Sherlock thinks. Sex.

Mrs. Hudson promises that she’ll come and help with the clean-up tomorrow, and John gets up to help her down the stairs. He takes her arm and she leans into him. She is only somewhat drunk, but clearly glad of the help. Sherlock watches them go. 

Violet has finally given in and fallen asleep on the sofa, so only Mycroft is left now, sitting in a chair. He won’t admit it, but he’s in pain. Sherlock has seen him put pressure on his hip when he takes the stairs, and right now he has several pillows stuffed behind his back. The bags under his eyes are signs of sleepless nights, as well. Sherlock says, “You’re not resting enough.” 

Mycroft smiles condescendingly. “As you well know, I am _busy_.” 

Sherlock didn’t mean it to be an insult. He looks at Mycroft and hates that he can’t… he can’t ever accomplish this with anyone. He cannot _connect_. 

Sherlock gets closer to Mycroft, leans over his chair, and presses his face to his neck. Mycroft lets him. Sherlock closes his eyes and just leans into him to make it all right. It needs to be, right now. 

When he opens his eyes, he can see John standing in the doorway, looking at them with a gentle expression. “Sorry, didn’t want to disturb.” 

Mycroft shifts in his chair, and Sherlock steps away. “It’s fine.” He glances at John. He still wishes he could bond to John, too. 

Mycroft heaves himself up and says, “Thank you, Sherlock.” He seems sincere. He goes back to his bag and takes out two envelopes that he puts on their living room table, with a brief glance towards him. 

John carefully lifts a sleeping Violet off the sofa, wraps her in a blanket, and then carries her down the stairs for Mycroft. 

He’ll probably kiss Mycroft goodnight in the hall.

Sherlock doesn’t watch. He picks up his violin instead and starts the first melody that comes to mind. It’s slow and sweet. The long, dragging notes always remind him of John. 

He turns to the window and watches the rain fall against it as he plays. He loses himself in it. He can hear John come in, but he doesn’t stop. He moves through the music and allows the empty, warm living room with the Christmas lights to serve as a room where his heart lives, as it soars through his fingers. 

When he puts the violin down, it feels as if he’s been playing for a long time. 

The room has gotten colder. Most of the candles have sputtered out. 

But John is sitting on the sofa, half-upright, still awake and looking at him. “That was gorgeous, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock can’t think in words for a moment, but when what John said falls into meaning, he feels a flash of pride. _Gorgeous._ Along with pride, he feels sadness at the limitation of it. He can’t speak through the music to John. There’s no way to tell John everything he feels tonight. 

John seems to angle himself towards him, so Sherlock - still alive with notes and melody - crawls next to him into his chair, and allows himself to be hugged for awhile now that his skin isn’t his entirely, but the sound’s. 

John holds him and his voice rumbles, “You have a good night?” 

Yes. 

 

-

 

They go to bed together, wake up and then spend a lazy morning among the post-Christmas party mess. John calls it ‘tradition by now, isn’t it?’

They eat some of the leftover food. Sherlock idly clicks on some blood spatter reports on his laptop.

It’s around noon by the time John takes the envelopes Mycroft not-so-secretly left behind. He gives him the one that says, ‘Sherlock Holmes’ in Mycroft’s curly handwriting. 

John says, “I told him we wouldn’t open them until today.” 

Sherlock half-heartedly tries to deduce what it’ll be this year. Mycroft’s sentimental nature is not too difficult to predict, so an offer of something of their choosing again seems likely. Money, a home - he’s done it so often that Sherlock doesn’t particularly care. But John tends to be impressed by it. 

Sherlock opens his envelope, expecting to throw a glance at whatever it is and to then just give it back to John and forget it ever existed. But he scans the - form, official - and stops. 

John is slower, so Sherlock gets to watch John as he looks at his own copy and realises what exactly it is. John looks up at him with a stunned expression. 

Sherlock can, bizarrely, feel emotion press on his throat as he looks at the piece of paper. 

  


** PARENTAL RESPONSIBILITY AGREEMENT **

**Regarding the children: _Violet Holmes, unborn child Holmes_  
** **Between biological and legal parent: _Mycroft Holmes_  
And applicants: _Sherlock Holmes, John Watson_**

**To declare that _Mycroft Holmes_ , signed, the biological and legal parent of children _Violet Holmes, unborn child Holmes_ , agrees that in addition to the parent having parental responsibility, the applicants _Sherlock Holmes, John Watson_ , shall have shared parental responsibility over said children.**

  


Sherlock’s mind immediately identifies why Mycroft would do this. The risks involved with pregnancy are clear, so therefore he did this in case something might happen and he’s incapable of caring for Violet or the baby. It’s sensible. But this is more than that. Mycroft could have just named them guardians in case of his death. Sherlock is fairly certain they already were, in fact. But if they fill this out, they will have actual parental rights. All three of them will. 

It seems to sink in slowly for John. He says, “Wow.”

Sherlock recognises what Mycroft is saying with this. Violet is Sherlock’s family, and he can make decisions for her if necessary. It feels right. Sherlock is a part of her, they bonded because of her. This is real, what he knows, what he feels for her… Sherlock blinks. Now the next baby, too, will be his as much as John’s? As much as Mycroft’s? His. 

John looks up at him and grins as he asks, “Sherlock? Are you... _crying?_ " 

“No!” There seems to be something blurring his eyes, pressing on his chest, and burning in his nose, but he breathes through it.

John laughs. Sherlock can still feel the thoughts coming fast. This is real. Permanent. Mycroft trusts him to take care of his children for a few hours a day - but more than that, to be a parent? He would have an equal part of the responsibility for them. They would be Sherlock’s, too. 

Sherlock takes his phone and calls Mycroft. 

Mycroft answers quickly, and his voice sounds pleasant enough, but with an undertone that betrays some nerves. “Sherlock?” 

“You mean it?” 

Mycroft sounds careful. “If you want to. I will understand if it is not the type of responsibility you feel comfortable with, naturally…” 

Of course Sherlock feels comfortable with it. He felt it from the second Violet was born. Probably before, too, but he didn’t know yet that he did. He’s aware that his answer sounds choked. “Yes. I want to.” 

Mycroft’s voice softens. “If you fill out the paperwork, it should take no more than a week.”

Sherlock swallows. “Thank you.” 

Mycroft sounds somewhat pleased with himself when he offers, “Merry Christmas?” 

“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

Sherlock puts the phone down and meets John’s eyes. John had been following their conversation and he is smiling widely now. “Well, then!” He goes to the kitchen and returns with a half-drunk bottle of champagne. 

Sherlock finds a pen. 

John pours two glasses. The champagne has lost part of its fizz but it doesn’t matter, John wants the gesture, and Sherlock can understand that. This is important. He can’t stop looking at their names, there. 

Sherlock leans down and signs the form with a flourish, right next to Mycroft’s signature.

John takes the pen from him and signs the form as well, just a simple ‘J. Watson.’ Then he grins, takes his glass, and says, “To making it official that they’re ours, too?” 

Sherlock clinks his glass to John’s. “Ours.” Even saying it feels strange, as if he has no right to that word. 

But he does now.

 

 

 

 

 


	87. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft had been considering offering legal parental rights to Sherlock and John for some time now. 

He wished to recognise who Sherlock and John are to Violet, and who they will be to the next child as well. Nevertheless, he was somewhat apprehensive about the reception of such an offer. He thought that John might not be too keen on the responsibility, and Sherlock’s reaction was a gamble between acceptance of the acknowledgment, or frustration at its official nature. Mycroft had not seen it as something that they needed to accept, necessarily. Just something that he wished to offer, because even if unaccepted, the intention would remain. 

He did not expect a phone call from Sherlock in which he received literal thanks. 

Nor John’s text that said, “He seemed touched. For real, tears and everything. Thank you, from both of us. JW” 

Mycroft was taken aback at that, and then he scolded himself for not realising it sooner. It is only natural that Sherlock was affected as well. Did he not know this when Sherlock ran into his house in the middle of the night when Violet was a newborn, unable to let her go? Has he not seen it in everything Sherlock has done for her since? In his care and love for her, in the way Sherlock has changed his life to not only accommodate Violet, but for her to be happy, to have a steady home with him as well? 

Mycroft should not have doubted it. Nor John’s commitment to Sherlock, and their children. 

Of course, John’s commitment to Mycroft personally is another matter, and Mycroft is only too aware of it. 

Their affair will be brief, Mycroft assumes. He is determined not to let himself be too affected by it when it ends. Which will be soon, seeing how he is getting heavier by the day, and while sex will be theoretically possible until he gives birth, he will more than understand when the point comes that John is no longer interested. 

Mycroft thinks that the key is, quite simply, to keep his expectations very low. He has John’s company now, therefore he should enjoy it as much as he can, and accept that soon it will be gone. 

Once the baby is born, there will be nothing left. The hormones will no longer be present and, even if that were not a major factor, Mycroft cannot see beyond that point regardless. He knows that his body will need many months to recover, and that he will be entirely exhausted and overworked. Sex will be the last thing on his mind. So, even if John continues all the way to the birth as his occasional sexual partner, as soon as the baby arrives it will be over between them. 

And Mycroft has found peace with that idea. It is in part why he wanted to offer Sherlock and John parental rights, so that they can define their roles to one another now, safely, and then lean on them later if needed. John, Sherlock and himself co-parenting the children will inherently be a much stronger relationship than any romantic or sexual affair could ever be. It is the paperwork that will bind them together, that will reinforce their bonds whether they are biological or otherwise. 

But now, as he can feel the clock tick down, Mycroft’s thoughts do occasionally turn treacherous. If he would have given in earlier, he could have had months of John’s attention. They could have moved together in bed without his stomach being in the way constantly and his back and hip aching. 

John has been entirely understanding of both and their touches have been mostly gentle, but Mycroft is not above imagining something different altogether. A hard fucking, all night long, coming home desperate and just going for it. He can imagine it, and he _wants_ it. 

But he will never have it. 

It is foolish to long to somehow reverse time and do it differently, he is aware. But if he commits this sin - and he does - then it seems a shame that there is not more time. 

 

-

 

Whenever they are together now, John insists on taking care of him in ways that seem quite alien. 

Two days after Christmas, John stopped by the Diogenes club, got to his knees and sucked him with such enthusiasm that Mycroft wasn’t certain whether he was still being thanked. 

Mycroft feels as if perhaps John should expect something different from this. But then he remembers the hormonal component of it, and he imagines that John is indeed following his instinct. But still, Mycroft has never been held quite this much, or has had comforting hands put on his back and been asked, “You sore?” in that tone.

He finds it both deeply fulfilling and strangely unnecessary, so Mycroft ends up telling John that he is fine - truly - often. 

The truth is that he does ache everywhere, of course. 

In the space of a week of winter weather, Mycroft’s hip has gone from a mild reminder of oncoming pain to a full-fledged issue when walking or standing for some time. He has started to get heartburn more often again as well, annoyingly often at night, so he sleeps with an extra pillow under his back, but then that makes it harder to fall asleep. His feet have swollen, his stomach feels heavy, and his back aches no matter what he does. 

Mycroft has been keeping careful track of his weight, and he weighs less at this point than he did with Violet. At times he feels proud that he is keeping the snacking and cravings under control better this time. But then he also worries that perhaps he is not getting enough nutrition, and surely he should suffer the same for this child as he did for the first. Then the idea of focusing on his weight at all seems too selfish. If he is strict enough afterwards then he will lose it, after all. 

He is aware that all of these thoughts are simply exaggerated by his hormonal state. He is filled with bonding hormones right now and is feeling highly emotional, but that does not make it feel any less genuine. 

And having regular sex is not helping, either. 

Frankly put, now that his body is reminded of what it feels like, Mycroft craves it. Often he lies in bed at night, nearly every night alone, and feels himself pulse with need. 

Despite that, Mycroft is careful with his invitations. He does not intend to see John in that way more often than once a week, but his body has other ideas. He only needs to stand near John and smell him to feel his nipples tighten. Even a single touch creates a slight spasm, and then the wetness soaks him. 

John stays the night for the second time less than a week later, and Mycroft has to restrain himself from immediately sitting on his hands and knees on the bed and presenting for him. Instead, he makes certain there is enough foreplay, that he sucks John close to the point of orgasm and only then asks for that act, but John comments on it none the less. 

“Oh, god, you’re wet. You want this?”

Mycroft can do nothing more than hang his head and shudder as John pushes into him. He nearly comes from that alone, as John thrusts harder, and then his orgasm flashes through him at John’s first touch of his penis. 

The benefit of John staying over, Mycroft soon learns, is that when he gets up in the middle of the night because the baby is dancing on his bladder and he then carefully gets back into bed, John wakes somewhat interested. 

And Mycroft, to his shame, sits over John with a knee on each side and takes him inside himself even when John isn’t fully hard yet. But in the dark these things seem to matter very little. He awkwardly rides him like that, to John’s enthusiastic sounds of encouragement. Mycroft takes himself in hand and comes, too fast, too eager. 

In the morning his alarm goes, and in any other case he would have objected, but when John rolls over, presses his erection against his back and says, his voice rough with sleep, “I know you have to go to work, but…” 

Mycroft lets John fuck him, in the early morning, aware that he’s running late. 

He spends the rest of the day feeling hot and used down there, wanting more. 

Always more.

 

 

 

 

 


	88. (John)

 

 

John is feeling rather incredible these days. 

Sex with Mycroft is much better than he ever imagined it would be. Mycroft just needs to get close, and John can feel himself respond, ready for it. He hadn’t done three times a night in _years_ , but he managed just fine now. 

Mycroft hurries off to work, and John comes home aware that he reeks. When he walks in, Sherlock’s head jerks up, his nostrils widen, and he looks him over with large eyes. 

“Um, I’ll… shower.”

John escapes to the shower, but even when he’s all scrubbed down, Sherlock continues to eye him. John has no idea what it feels like to Sherlock when he comes home smelling like Sherlock’s pregnant omega. Part of him wants to push Sherlock’s reaction to it, and see if he can get him to turn angry. Hard. Wanting. 

John knows it’s a terrible idea so he won’t, but a bit of it... John’s always wondered whether he feels more like an omega when he’s with an alpha, and more like an alpha when he’s with an omega. Lord knows he has the fantasy down these days - having Mycroft under him, wanting him, pregnant with his baby, it’s not hard to see how that’s making him feel rather powerful. 

How that riles him up. 

But no, after a good shower and some time to get back to himself, he can handle the careful distance with Sherlock. The smiles, the rare touches. John can do that. He’s been doing it for forever, and it does feel fine most of the time. It’s comfortable.

They’re good, really. More so now than they’ve ever been.

John was surprised by Sherlock’s reaction to Mycroft’s paperwork. He doesn’t see how the forms change _that_ much, but apparently to Sherlock, having official parental rights is important. It’s another thing that John doesn’t fully get. 

Sherlock cares about the name of things, doesn’t he? 

On the next case, when Sherlock’s already ducking out of a conversation with the relatives to look at the evidence, John makes sure to shake the victim’s daughter’s hand and says, “John Watson, I’m his partner.” 

He thought that it would create more of a reaction, but it doesn’t. Either Sherlock didn’t hear, or he thinks it’s just meant as a general term, because he doesn’t say a thing.

So John tries again. When they’re in a coffee shop that afternoon, he orders, “A latte, and a cappuccino for my boyfriend.”

Sherlock’s mouth does briefly twitch, but he doesn’t comment. John gets that it’s a bit silly - ‘boyfriend’ - for what they are. They’ll have two kids between them soon. They’ve known each other for what, almost seven years? They’ve been living together for the last two-and-a-half again. But they’re not bonded, so there’s no other word left for it. 

Except, of course, the big one. John feels weird even thinking about it because they’re not that, obviously. Sherlock isn’t his _husband_. 

Husband implies sex, doesn’t it? Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s just commitment. Maybe at that point it doesn’t matter really, and it’s just about time - about ‘you and me, we want this thing to last forever.’ 

John thinks about Sherlock asking to get married, so long ago now, when they were barely even dating. Was that what Sherlock wanted? To just skip all the rest and to make it official that this was going to be here between them, no matter what? 

He’s starting to get that. 

 

-

 

The weather’s dreary around New Year’s. They’re mostly stuck inside while gusts of wind and even hail hits the windows, trying to think of ways to entertain Violet. John feels even more admiration for Sherlock’s patience now that he sees him with her day in and day out. It gets pretty repetitive. 

Actually, John’s starting to go stir crazy. 

It’s a small miracle that it took a whole month, but John wants to do some work now. Running, shooting a bad guy, solving something, or at the very least getting out of the flat for some air. John can feel himself starting to snap at Violet, and he hates himself for it. He feels caged in, too, listening to her whine all day. 

Molly and Greg are off on their eloping-and-honeymoon, so John texts Mycroft. “Any cases around? Please, we’re going nuts here. JW” 

Mycroft replies, “I have some minor incidents that could be investigated, yes. I will bring the files tonight. MH” 

But that’s not enough. John looks at the text, then at Sherlock, who is dressing a loudly screeching Violet for a trip to the park despite the ominously dark clouds gathering outside. He says, “Mycroft’s got a case we could look at. I’ll go by.” 

Sherlock doesn’t protest. 

John only has a half-formed plan - maybe a quick blowjob in the office if Mycroft’s up for it? He hurries to the tube entrance through the piercing cold wind, darting inside before the rain starts, and then spends a good fifteen minutes on the tube fantasising about just that. 

John finds Mycroft’s glass-walled office, but when he’s by the door, he sees that Mycroft’s inside talking to a woman. 

Mycroft sees John and gives him a small nod. But then he continues to talk to the woman, ignoring John. 

Whatever they’re discussing, it’s probably highly important, so John waits outside. But he can see that woman right in Mycroft’s space. She’s clearly loving it, too, enjoying that smell of pregnant omega. John feels a shot of jealousy he didn’t think he could feel due to anyone besides Sherlock. 

When they’ve finished their little chat, Mycroft comes out of the office and steers him into another, much more private one, then closes the door behind them.

John immediately steps closer. 

Mycroft eyes him, and John can see that he’s going to have to convince him. Mycroft’s going to say that he can’t just waltz in here and ask for sex, so John beats him to it. “I know. I know, but I can’t…” He runs a hand over his face. “Look, I can go if you want me to.” 

Mycroft looks John over, then sighs. “I imagine I can spare ten minutes.” 

John grins and draws him into a kiss. It’s always good, this. Always a distraction. 

Mycroft cups his hand over John’s crotch and _squeezes_ him there. John groans, not even caring who might hear him. Yes, please. 

Mycroft unzips John’s trousers, opens the button, and works them down for him. Mycroft pulls John’s cock out and - expertly, Jesus, John can feel himself grow in his hand – slides his fingers over him. 

John says, “I can’t stop thinking about it. You.” 

Mycroft doesn’t reply. His hand tightens and releases, tightens and then – out of nowhere - gives him an almost punishingly hard pull. John feels a rush right from the tips of his toes curl along his spine at that. “Hmm.” 

He wants to thrust into Mycroft’s hand, but Mycroft won’t let him. Instead Mycroft offers, “Perhaps you can sit on the desk?” 

John looks at it. Yeah, that’ll be great. John pulls his trousers and pants down past his knees, sits his bare arse down on the desk, and spreads his legs, feeling rather smug. It’s the middle of the day, he’s in an office, with his cock out – what more could he possibly want? 

Mycroft smiles briefly at his expression, before he pulls a desk chair around and sits down. They’ve had to get creative now Mycroft’s getting bigger, but John doesn’t mind. It’s glorious to sit here and to have him between his legs. 

Mycroft wraps his hand around John’s cock again, then leans over until his breath is close - John can feel the heat of it. 

John asks, purposely, “You want me to come in your mouth?” 

Mycroft glances up and says, “...if it pleases you?” Mycroft still sounds so careful when he talks during sex, but John loves making him say it. 

Mycroft leans in and starts sucking him. John can feel Mycroft’s belly bump against his knee, and it only adds to it. Mycroft is his, Mycroft’s doing this to him, no one else. 

Mycroft’s licking him and using his hand at the same time, jerking him off just perfectly. It only takes a couple of minutes before John can feel the shiver of orgasm. He tries to push it back a bit, but Mycroft knows him too well by now, every trace of his fingers, every pull is just right. “Going to....”

John comes as Mycroft sucks him through it. 

John closes his eyes and breathes out, feeling the last shocks of it. _Hmm._

When he opens his eyes again, Mycroft is using his handkerchief to fussily wipe his lips. He says, as he sees John looking, “I hope that was helpful?”

John laughs. “It was. Brilliant.” 

Mycroft carefully returns his handkerchief to his pocket and says, “As I was going to tell you, the files are in a different office, and I will bring them tonight.” 

John nods. “Yeah.” He feels a bit guilty about doing this, now. Mycroft doesn’t need this on top of everything else, does he? Jesus, he’s pregnant, and just trying to get through his work day, probably. “Sorry, I won’t… I mean, I know you have things to do.”

Mycroft allows him a brief smile and says, “Yes… but then it does rather liven up my day.”

John laughs. “Does it, now?” He slides off the desk and draws Mycroft in. No reason he has to leave yet, is there? 

 

-

 

When John gets back to Baker Street - soaked, because he forgot to take an umbrella even though he has that nice one from Christmas - Sherlock glances at him and says, “Sex in the Bank office. You feel better now.” 

John is surprised for about a second – how? _How_ can he possibly know that? – then laughs. “That transparent, am I?” 

John leans down for a brief kiss to Sherlock’s curls, just a brush, but he loves that he can do that much. 

Sherlock doesn’t pull away, either. He just hums. 

Violet’s still in a mood, though. She’s re-arranging the nativity scene that they’ve neglected to take down after Christmas, dropping the figures on the wooden floor with big thuds while shouting, “No ducks because there’s rain and now you’re _all wet_ and _stop running, Violet!_ ” 

John eyes Sherlock. “She’s telling you off?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock grimaces. “She wanted to stay in the rain.” 

Violet says to the donkey, “Yes, you do! You do!” And then to the baby Jesus, sounding remarkably like Mycroft, “ _Inside voice,_ Violet!” 

They both burst out laughing. 

John takes Violet with him for a shop, for no other reason than to give Sherlock a break. He takes her for a brief visit to Mrs. Hudson’s too, who entertains Violet with the promise of a Jaffa Cake if she’s good. Still, it’s a couple of long hours before dinner time. Then John cooks, and Sherlock feeds Violet. When Mycroft comes to get her and gives him a brief smile, John grins. 

He’s got no reason not to be happy, does he? Violet is a serious handful, but she’s an awesome kid, too. Things with Mycroft are going great. And Sherlock… 

That night, John lies next to Sherlock in bed and wonders. 

Maybe it’s time to make him happy, too.

 

 

 

 

 


	89. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock can see John become more and more irritated by being stuck at home. He often grumbles about trivial things, like the laundry, or Violet spilling her drink on the floor. 

Sherlock scans the news with increasing urgency. He’s sure that it’s time to get a case to make John feel useful again, but then John goes off to see Mycroft, and he comes home with a bounce in his step. _Smiling._

Sherlock looks at him, unsure what he needs to provide for John now. Does sex give John the same rush of excitement as a case does, truly? Sherlock has always known that the two are interchangeable to John, but he’s never quite seen it work like this. John, even after sex with his girlfriends, was always looking for something more. He always seemed to be craving some new thing. 

But for now, this seems to be it. 

Sherlock predicted it would be, but even so, at times it’s surprisingly difficult to live with. Mycroft and John kiss occasionally in the hallway, or by the door, and to see them turn towards each other feels... Sherlock isn’t sure why it feels wrong to him. He doesn’t feel the aching anger he did with Mara, or the deep hopelessness he felt when John chose Mary. 

This is quieter. 

Some days it’s not there at all. On those days, Sherlock feels only John’s happiness. 

But then other days, all Sherlock can focus on is John looking at his phone and not at him. John being distracted. John wanting Mycroft, John leaving, John changing, John… and he feels as if he wants to pull the phone out of John’s hand, throw it to the floor, and rage. 

He doesn’t. 

Love is sacrifice, Sherlock knows. He has always known it, so it shouldn’t surprise him now. And this is a sacrifice he’s more than capable of making. 

 

-

 

On the sixth of January, John wakes him with breakfast in bed. Sherlock rolls his eyes at John and pretends that he doesn’t know the date, or why it’s at all significant enough to inspire eating in bed. Birthdays are boring, generally. 

But John and Violet make him a crown - that Violet then insists on wearing herself all day. They sing him ‘Happy Birthday’ over a collection of lemon drizzle cupcakes brought up by Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft comes to collect Violet early, and he leaves an expensive bottle of cognac on the kitchen table and rare eighteenth-century sheet music on Sherlock’s violin case. 

John takes him out properly then, to a nice restaurant, and Sherlock admits that out of all of his birthdays, this one was probably one of the more bearable. It makes John smile. 

 

-

 

The next day, John leaves to check out a veteran’s centre that he’s thinking of volunteering at. 

Mycroft comes by to pick Violet up and to bond, and it’s not only John who smells like Mycroft now. It’s become reciprocal. Mycroft lowers himself onto the sofa, and Sherlock only has to inhale for his whole body to feel a shiver of need. Sherlock leans forward, bites and connects himself to that scent. Then sighs, deeply. 

Sherlock closes his eyes and stays there, drifting on the comfort. 

Until Violet suddenly touches his arm and asks, “She’lock?” 

Mycroft answers for him, “Play a bit more, dear. Read your book?” 

Sherlock blinks. He doesn’t know how long he was bonding. Too long, he assumes, judging by Mycroft’s curious expression as he asks, “Are you all right?” 

Sherlock feels distant, still. For some reason he _hates_ Mycroft as deeply as their bond makes him care for him, these days. Which is why he admits, “You smell like John.” 

Mycroft’s face pulls, and his superficial enquiry is replaced by a look of deep discomfort. “I apologise.” 

“No, it’s fine.” Better, like this. 

But Mycroft looks at him with some resignation in his eyes. “Sherlock, if you feel that it is time for John and I to cease our…” he hesitates, “ _relations_ , please say so.” 

Why would they? Why, when they’re both enjoying it that much? Sherlock looks at Mycroft, and the accusation comes easily. “You love it. You’re not going to stop.” _You’re always going to be the one who gave John what he wanted most._

Mycroft seems to be less annoyed by that than Sherlock intended. “I am very grateful to you for this, and I…” He swallows. “Treasure it. But,” Mycroft looks at him seriously. “There will be an end to it very soon either way. By your choosing, or by necessity.” He looks towards his stomach. “The choice is fully yours to make.” 

Sherlock frowns. Mycroft is not even seven months pregnant. “There’s two more months.” Followed by years, probably, until John gets bored. Sherlock hates to acknowledge it, but that is likely to happen eventually. To both of them. 

Mycroft sighs. “Yes, but we do have to go on after that as well. And I do not wish to hurt you, Sherlock. I never did. Nor would John, I imagine.” 

Sherlock nearly laughs at that. Wishing it didn’t hurt him doesn’t change a thing. John won’t leave because he’s happy now, and Sherlock is selfish enough to want exactly that, even if he has to rely on Mycroft. No matter what it takes to keep John here, he will do it. That is not even a question anymore. 

And so will Mycroft, now. “You’re _in love_.” 

Mycroft takes a breath, but then - shockingly - stays silent. He seems unsure of how to answer, but then how would he know what love is? Sherlock understands. He didn’t know before John either. 

“It’s all over you.” _Both of you._

“…again, I believe what you are deducing is a rather more base emotion.” Mycroft seems faintly ashamed saying that. 

Base emotion. The one that Sherlock doesn’t get. 

It’s fine, Sherlock’s never been certain that what he feels for John is love, either. It’s much more than that. More than whatever passion ordinary people seem to be capable of. Love is kissing and holding hands, Sherlock is sure. What he feels is his chest being ripped apart. It’s much crueller than being in love. 

Sherlock gets up and lifts Violet, who had been silently destroying a book for the last few minutes. “Time to go home.”

Sherlock helps her into her coat. She giggles as he routinely tickles her. “No, She’lock, nooo!” 

Mycroft remains on the sofa, and the distance between them feels as wide as it ever has. They are finally on the same side, as Mycroft has always wanted, but yet the gap somehow remains. 

They’re both afraid to lose John now. 

 

-

 

John comes home and talks about the veteran’s centre as if he liked it. “Some nice guys, yeah.” And “I’m trying out twice a week - something else, you know?” 

Sherlock doesn’t tell him that he’ll be bored within a week. John will figure that out on his own. 

John will hear the stories and try to empathise because he feels that he has to, but he isn’t like those soldiers. John isn’t traumatised, or broken, or in need of a blanket of normality and understanding to feel whole again. Sherlock understood that the first time he met John. 

John takes his hand in bed that night and asks, “You’ve been quiet, everything all right?” 

Sherlock wants to tell him, only he’s not even sure what the words are. _I am afraid of what this is doing. Mycroft is, too._

John breathes out, pats his arm, and says, “Well, maybe we’ll find a case tomorrow, huh?” 

Sherlock says, automatically, “Yes.”

John laughs. “All right, we’ll have a look. Let’s catch a killer or something. It’s been a while.”

John falls asleep soon after, and Sherlock slowly turns closer to him until they are nearly lying shoulder to shoulder. 

This is the right thing to do. It has to be. 

He _knows_ it is.

 

 

 

 

 


	90. (Mycroft)

 

 

Sherlock’s words didn’t disturb him much at the time, but in the next few days, Mycroft can feel them return. _You’re in love._

He does not entirely believe he is. But if he is not, then what exactly does he feel for John? 

It’s a strange question, because Mycroft has little context for it. Mycroft cares for Sherlock - he always has, with both a deep protectiveness and endless frustration. He has believed that to be love and it is, undeniably so. 

He loves Violet in a somewhat similar way. Fully, endlessly. Mycroft will always be there for her and attempt to provide her with what she needs. He imagines that the feeling for this second child, which now amounts to hope and some fear, will eventually be similar as well. 

But he has never loved someone physically. He has known enough desire in his life to know that this is most certainly that - his body, as exhausted as it is by the assault of pregnancy, would not be feeling these waves of lust for John at the smallest provocation if it were not true sexual desire. But then what that does to his mind, he is not certain. Mycroft does not dislike the thought of being in love, as it suggests a fleeting state that can be ended. As this will end, eventually.

He is willing to keep it all aside to be considered when this is long over, and when he has lost John’s touch and gained some distance. 

He believes that to be the safest course of action. 

 

-

 

It is more difficult to do when he is lying in bed, and John - who has his own code to override the security system now - walks into Mycroft’s bedroom. Mycroft’s whole self seems to be elevated at the sight of him. 

John takes off his clothes as efficiently as if he is alone, but Mycroft can feel a tender arousal at it. 

And then when John pulls back the covers and gets into bed next to him, Mycroft can do nothing but reach for him. He touches John’s skin, his shoulder, traces the scar of a gunshot - Mycroft has read the files in detail, late at night, imagining John in a hospital bed and entirely alone. 

Mycroft kisses him, which makes John smile for some reason that Mycroft cannot discern. 

Mycroft noses his neck, and it makes John laugh. John is full of sounds in his bed, bursts of laughter interspersed with low groans. Mycroft finds it foreign. He almost wants to ask John if he is truly this delighted to be touched or whether he is pretending. But Mycroft cannot find a lie in John’s expression, in the openness of his body, or in the eager way in which he presses himself forward. 

Mycroft sits up, regrettably limited in his manoeuvrability now, and pushes the covers aside. He leans down to take John’s flaccid penis into his mouth. It makes his arms tremble because he is leaning his weight on them, and his chest burns because he is turning at an awkward angle. It makes the weight of his stomach and the child inside of it shift and it is not even remotely comfortable, but still he does it for the chance to taste John. 

To hear John’s, “Hm, love that.” 

John says things like that regularly. Mycroft prefers not to say too much since he finds words to be treacherous in situations like this, in moments that are so starkly defined by their bodies, their want, and their sacrifice of touch for each other. He kisses John’s penis, gently. John’s hand curls around his neck, making him shiver. 

Mycroft licks and sucks John’s growing erection until his arms feel as if they will give out, and he has to move and lie back. 

Mycroft will never curse this pregnancy, but it is not at all practical to move together like this. 

John sees some of his frustration, because he says, “My turn, yeah?” 

And he uncovers him fully. Every detail of Mycroft’s large stomach is there, plain to see. Even the old stretch marks, soon to be competing with new ones. 

Mycroft does not feel as if his body should be cherished. Part of him would much rather hide under well-designed suits and controlled remarks. He never felt comfortable falling apart in sighs and sweat and revealing this image to another. But the desire is strong enough to allow it. 

Mycroft looks into John’s eyes as he sees his body, and he tries to understand what John wants from him. 

It is easy for John, Mycroft knows. John wants everyone, so of course he would accept Mycroft like this, too - swollen and pregnant. 

Still, it bothers him that he cannot predict the moment when John will choose to end it. Mycroft searches for it every time that he has John in bed with him - the signs of repulsion, impatience with his clumsiness, his growing belly and his fatigue. John does most of the work, and he would be right to complain. He would be right to choose not to have sex with his bloated, giant self now, and choose another. 

He would be right. 

But John grins mischievously, taking years off his face, and then disappears between Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft cannot see him over the curve of his stomach, but he can feel John all the more for it. He discerns the trace of John’s lips, a rush of his breath, and the wet heat of John’s mouth as he takes him between his lips. 

And this would be easier to deny if Mycroft himself did not react to it, but every time he finds himself moved by the feeling. 

Mycroft listens to John’s soft sounds of encouragement. Mycroft closes his eyes and feels John’s care in every touch and every gentle lick over his flesh. Or he _thinks_ he does - he deceives himself that what he receives from John is love returned, and not simply a well-practiced habit. 

It is such an easy delusion. 

Mycroft feels the goose bumps and chills of arousal. He feels himself reach for the warmth and the intense, deep pleasure of John’s mouth, while imagining that John does this not simply out of a sense of fairness or so he can penetrate him afterwards, but because John aches for it. That it fills John to inhale him, that John finds it difficult to miss him, too. 

Mycroft thinks all these things, and still he gives in. His senses crackle and overflow, enough that he lets out a barely audible sound. John knows him enough by now to speed up and to take more from him. John does it with a pleased moan, as if it is John himself reaching the peak. Mycroft allows himself to wish and want and reach for John. He orgasms into John’s mouth. 

John moves back up the bed after, wiping his lips, and smiles. 

Always, John smiles. 

John is fully hard, and what Mycroft truly wants is to turn around, sit on his knees, and be taken. But he will not ask for it. He will keep that last shred of dignity. 

John touches him, strokes his side, kisses his neck in a lingering kiss, and presses his erection against him. 

And Mycroft turns to him and kisses him gladly. He can taste himself in John’s mouth. He can feel the slick heat between his legs, a wish stronger than any other. So he offers, damned into it, as always, “You can have me, John.” 

Because, and yes, this is pure vanity - it still makes John’s eyes widen and his breath come faster. “Yeah?” 

Yes. Even though he feels despicable and entirely undesirable, Mycroft turns over. John helps him put a pillow under his chest, and while that is not exactly graceful, there is a limit to how long Mycroft can lie like this otherwise, and John knows it. Mycroft lies down on his stomach, presses his face in the pillows, and opens his legs. He spreads his arse cheeks with a shudder that feels entirely impossible. 

John lingers. John kisses between his shoulder blades, then the middle of his back. He scrapes his teeth and sucks the skin there while Mycroft can feel himself twitch. John says, his voice heavier, “Oh, you’re _gorgeous_.” 

Mycroft can only spread his legs wider in reply. Sometimes John uses his fingers, first. Other times he merely breathes there, that close. Sometimes he goes straight to it and presses inside of him, and it both hurts and soars to receive him. Now, he leans closer - Mycroft can feel him - and then there is the soft, wet trace of his tongue. Mycroft doesn’t make a sound. 

John does, a soft, “Hm?” He leans closer. His tongue touches him again with a lingering lick. 

Mycroft can feel his cheeks heat up. John is only teasing, he knows. 

Until John flattens his tongue and licks a long stripe _there_ , and he can hear himself shout, “Ah!” entirely without meaning to.

John laughs. “That’s what it takes to get you to scream?” He sounds pleased. 

He licks him again, but Mycroft feels impatient with it, and perhaps John does, too, because he moves and lines his erection up. Mycroft can feel the anticipation shake him. 

John asks, “Yeah?” 

And then _yes_ , presses into him. 

Mycroft moves his hips up as much as he can, meets him with every thrust, and John takes him in long, even strokes, saying, “Yes,” and “Oh, god, amazing.” 

Mycroft does not reply. He only angles his hips, clenches his fists in the sheets, and every time John thrusts just right, he can feel it stir him even more. 

His body belongs to John’s, to this unnameable need being filled. 

He gets hard again. The first time it happened, he was able to hide it. But John knows, now. John angles his thrusts to be shallower, gives him small, building thrusts, and Mycroft gets his knees underneath his body and tilts himself up that way. He cannot do this for long anymore, but it is John’s permission. 

John finds Mycroft’s erection and wraps a hand around it, then strokes while he pushes into him. The sensations blur. There is the feeling of the pillow under his face, the slick sounds of being fucked, it all disappears when John pulls him off and thrusts into him at the same time. The wetness is dripping over his thighs and spreading under him while John fucks him, hard. Mycroft is on the edge again, so close, and then John groans and twitches inside of him, so Mycroft allows his orgasm to claim him, too. 

Mycroft moves himself down again. He is damp with sweat. There is a tired stretch to his legs that means they will ache in the morning. 

He does not like to look at John, after this. Instead, he pushes his body up out of the bed, and goes to wash away the slickness between his thighs. 

By the time he returns, Mycroft feels as if he can control this again. He meets John’s eyes, and John says, “You know, that makes me feel pretty damn good.” 

Sex in general? Mycroft would assume so. 

But no. John adds, “Making you come _twice_.” 

Oh. Mycroft feels a flash of shame. He would prefer not to speak of it, but he admits, “It is the hormones of pregnancy. I am not normally that sensitive.” 

John doesn’t seem any less pleased by that. “Well, it’s great, yeah?”

He seems as if he wants to hear him say it, so Mycroft admits, “I cannot complain.”

Which John takes to mean something good, again. 

John settles behind him and - it is a habit, by now - puts a hand on Mycroft’s stomach. In truth, Mycroft does not believe that sex and this should be mixed, but then all of this is because of the baby, is it not? That is why John is here, so he can feel this. 

Mycroft closes his eyes and thinks of how this is surely a positive. He never could have anticipated how it would affect him to lie in a bed in John’s arms like this. Or to have John feel their child’s kicking. 

And then to have John kiss his shoulder and say, “I’m going home, promised we’d go to the morgue early tomorrow. Molly’s back from her honeymoon and there’s a pile of bodies.” 

Mycroft takes a breath and says, “Naturally. Who could resist such a prospect?” 

Mycroft sleeps alone that night, on various strategically placed pillows, waking often to urinate or to change positions. He feels a faint sense of loneliness. 

He will not have this feeling for much longer, Mycroft is aware, as he will not have John for much longer. Then does he love John? Is he, like Sherlock suggested and entirely beyond his own control, _in love?_

It would probably be wiser if he were not.

 

 

 

 

 


	91. (John)

 

 

In the morgue, John watches Sherlock move from corpse to corpse with the air of a child unwrapping presents on Christmas morning. John shares an amused look with Molly. _Never changes, does he._ “Find anything you like there?” 

“Strangulation,” Sherlock mumbles. He turns around and whips out his magnifying glass to study a woman’s hand. 

John leans back against a metal table and asks Molly, “So, good wedding, then?”

“Oh, yes!” She’s glowing with happiness. “We got an Elvis impersonator and everything. I know it’s a little silly, but, you know, we had fun.” She glances at Sherlock. 

Who - surprisingly - says, “Congratulations, by the way, Molly.” 

Molly seems stunned to be acknowledged over the corpse. “Thank you.” She hesitates, and then offers, “And um, I did wear a dress? They had some for rent at the chapel. It was that see-through fabric.” 

“Taffeta.” Sherlock scrapes some dirt from under the woman’s fingernails and collects it in a sample bag. 

Molly goes on, “The owner’s daughter was our bridesmaid. It was quick, really, just fifteen minutes. But it’s... We’re married now.” She looks at the ring on her finger. “That’s what matters.” 

Sherlock zips up the body bag. “You’re happy.” 

“Yes, I am. I never thought I’d… you know. But Greg is really good, we love each other. A lot.” 

“Hm.” Sherlock leaves the corpse. “This wasn’t a suicide. Come on John, let’s arrest the gardener.” 

John trails behind a hurrying Sherlock and says, “Right, duty calls. See you soon then.”

 

-

 

John isn’t wrong about seeing Molly again soon. 

They do arrest the gardener - who had been stealing for years, got caught, and decided to kill the woman before she could call the police. Sherlock got all of that from the state of her fingernails, apparently. 

Then it’s back to the morgue for the next one. Sherlock picks a banker who had a heart attack. She actually did die of a heart attack, but they were on the verge of losing their house, and her wife helped it along a bit by switching her medication. 

Mrs. Hudson texts that she doesn’t mind keeping Violet until Mycroft comes to get her, so they go back a third time. 

Sherlock selects the corpse of a street kid who died at Heathrow after coming back from Colombia. The drugs in his stomach burst open and flooded his system. Sherlock takes a sample, looks at it under the microscope, then considers the sparse file and says, “It’s likely he lived in London.”

He was an omega, with a fresh-looking bond mark. 

John doesn’t really know why that matters, but they carry the kid’s picture around Hackney that evening, going from one group of homeless people to the next. 

It’s freezing. Some have fires, but most are huddled in sleeping bags and coats trying to stay warm. 

Sherlock hands out several fifty-pound notes in return for information about the kid, and John can’t even get annoyed about wasting the money, because it’s clear these people can use it. No one wants to live like this, do they?

They do find the kid’s alpha eventually, in a dirty, abandoned house with rotting floors and crumbling walls. He’s lying on his back on a filthy mattress, with the needle still in his arm. He’s barely breathing. John calls an ambulance and does CPR when the alpha’s breathing does actually stop. Heroin overdose, most likely. Could have been on purpose. 

When the ambulance arrives, the paramedics take over and load him up. He’ll make it, probably. 

John and Sherlock are sitting in a greasy spoon, afterwards. It’s the only one they could find still open at this hour and it’s a bit grim, but at least it’s warm. 

John tucks his hands under his arms. He feels frozen to the bone. And grimy too, the stink of the house seems to have sunk into his clothes. He can’t wait for a hot shower and to climb into bed, but until then, this will do. 

The waitress brings over a hot cuppa. And then a plate of bangers and mash. John tucks in, he feels like he hasn’t eaten in ages. He hasn’t, really - the last he remembers is eating a hurried handful of Violet’s animal biscuits sometime this morning. 

Sherlock only has a coffee, but then he’s always like that when they’re working. 

Once he’s eaten something, John feels decent, really. They solved three cases in a day, and they saved that kid, too. But Sherlock seems gloomy. 

“Hey,” John says, “He’ll make it.” The kid - they found him just in time. 

“He’s still a homeless heroin addict, John.”

“Well, he’s young. He can turn it around, can’t he?” John’s not sure if that’s any comfort. Yeah, the kid could, but he probably won’t and they both know it. Still, they did what they could for him.

Sherlock adds some sugar to his coffee, swirls it around, and says, “He lost his bonded. He wanted to die.” 

John remembers that feeling. Wanting to give up. He wanted to eat his gun - he was near to it, a couple of times, after Sherlock... 

“Yeah, I don’t believe in that.” John thought about it often enough, but he never did do it. John looks at Sherlock and says, “I didn’t kill myself when you were dead.” 

Sherlock takes a hesitant breath. “No.”

John sticks his fork in a piece of sausage and eats it, then says, “You live on, because you have to, right? You need to.” He’s not sure why it feels so important, all of a sudden. “I lived on for you, didn’t I?”

Sherlock seems surprised to hear it. 

Because Sherlock still doesn’t get it, the fucking idiot - he doesn’t know how much John loved him even then. How, when Sherlock left, he took John’s whole world with him. 

And yes, sure, Sherlock himself probably can’t imagine feeling anything that way, but fuck it. Fuck it all, John’s tired from walking through frozen back alleys all night and from doing CPR for twenty minutes while they were waiting for the ambulance, and he’s _had it_. He says, “You thought I could live without you?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but no, John speaks on, “You were dead and I stayed alive because I had to. I wasn’t – alive. Not really. I dated Mary, because I couldn’t…” John stills. He hasn’t said her name out loud in two years. But he ends the thought, “...because I couldn’t imagine ever wanting anyone like I wanted you again.” 

Sherlock blinks. 

He doesn’t get it. He still doesn’t. “Sherlock, I would have bonded to you if I could. I would have, right then, from day one.” _Because I was bloody in love with you._ “I’d do it now, if it would do anything.” 

Sherlock says quickly, “I would bond to you, too, John.” 

“...Yeah.” John takes a breath, and he can feel his anger subside. It’s not Sherlock’s fault. It never was, was it? It was always John, wanting more. He runs his hand over his face. “Sorry, I’m tired.” 

Sherlock pays the waitress and they go home, but John feels oddly turned inside out, having said all of that out loud. 

It’s true that he would have bonded to Sherlock right in the beginning. And if he could go back, he’d do it all again. All of the fucking heartbreak. John chose this, and he’ll always choose this. Sherlock. Their life. 

He’d choose it a million times over. 

 

-

 

The next day, John calls Greg from his old bedroom so Sherlock won’t overhear, and asks, “So, now you’re married, you two up for a drink?” 

“If my ball and chain says yes…” There’s the muffled sound of Molly laughing and Greg saying, “Oi!” to her. And then back into the line, “Sure, what time?” 

John gets there first - the benefit of being unemployed - and sits by the bar in a cosy, half-empty pub. He orders a beer. 

Greg and Molly walk in ten minutes late, Molly tying up her hair and Greg with the look of a man that got shagged thoroughly not too long ago. John can relate, actually - he thinks of Mycroft with a pang. It’s been a couple of days, so maybe he can slip by tonight. 

John lets them order, chat a bit about their honeymoon, and then says, “Right, now I’ve got you here… I need your help with something.” 

After the pub, John goes to Mrs. Hudson’s and sits her down for a chat. Or well, a question, really, because John’s thought about it and he’s pretty sure that Mrs. Hudson’s the one he needs to ask. 

And when he makes it to Mycroft’s that night, John takes a deep breath, faces him, and says, “There’s something I want to talk about.”

He’s got a plan.

 

 

 

 

 


	92. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock goes to the hospital to see the alpha they saved. He doesn’t talk to him, but he calls Mycroft and asks him to pull some strings to get him into a rehab program. Sherlock’s unsure about his motives - he doesn’t _care_ , really. It’s just that he remembers what it feels like to wake up in a hospital after an overdose. 

He remembers the detox, as well. 

That night, Sherlock plays with Violet, then lies next to her in bed and tries not to feel the memory of it play over his skin, or his body ache at the thought of it. 

He can still smell the vomit. 

He can still feel the ghost of the urge to use swirl through him. 

Violet doesn’t sleep well. Sherlock isn’t sure if it’s due to him, but she tosses and turns, then cries. He sits up with her at three in the morning and makes her a bottle of milk even though she’s mostly grown out of night-time bottles. Sherlock holds her in his arms, aware of how big she is now. Sherlock carries her back to bed, and then starts an experiment on the kitchen table to pass the time until Violet wakes up again, which she does. Twice. 

John comes home around seven, carrying breakfast and a soft smile that Sherlock both loves to receive and hates to see on mornings like this. 

John kisses his cheek and says, “Good night?”

Sherlock hasn’t slept at all. “Hm.” 

 

-

 

That Friday, Molly calls him around eight in the morning. “Hi, Sherlock. It’s, well, it’s a bit weird but I thought of you – I just found a note inside a stomach cavity?” 

And Sherlock grins. 

It’s been so long since they had a good case. He says, “I’m on my way.” 

John is still in the shower, so Sherlock calls through the door, “Hurry! We need to go to the morgue!”

John comes out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel and grumbles, “They won’t run away, you know.” But he seems to be in a good mood, as well. 

John sits close to him in the cab, which is a bit uncomfortable, but Sherlock doesn’t say anything. His mind is already on the type of killer most likely to leave notes. They haven’t had a proper serial killer in several years. 

When they get there, Molly has the note ready for him in a plastic evidence bag. 

Sherlock cannot identify anything about the writing on it, beyond deducing that it is written in an Arabic language. He analyses a sample of the paper under the microscope, then does a careful examination of the corpse. Molly is right that the man - middle-aged, boring - seems to have died from natural causes, but that doesn’t mean much. 

They take a copy of the note to an expert in Arabic languages that Sherlock has talked to before, a Professor Henderson. They are intercepted by one of his colleagues, who seems eager to help. She is an alpha with obvious military bearing - at least a colonel in the army, most likely Afghanistan, Sherlock thinks. She looks at the note and says, “I think it’s an ancient form of Farsi. I can translate it but it’ll take a bit.” 

Then they go by Lestrade’s to obtain the location of the victim’s death. 

They’re out in the streaming rain in a part of London with a specific clay topsoil, trying to find any trace of a crime scene, but of course the EMTs have trampled all over it – jogging, really, who has a brain aneurysm while jogging? It’s so very clichéd. Sherlock makes John laugh saying that. 

After an hour of useless wandering, John takes them into a warm coffee shop that Sherlock remembers from a stakeout years ago. John says something like, “I liked the coffee here,” but Sherlock is barely listening, trying to think it through. Why a message? Why send a message if the corpse has nothing whatsoever interesting about his death. Was it truly just about the note itself? 

They drink their coffees, until Molly texts, “Found another one!”

They rush back to the morgue. Molly found a note inserted inside a brain this time. It’s some sort of numeric code. They bring it to the department of Applied Mathematics at Imperial College and interrupt a lecture to see Dr. Barnett – he owes Sherlock a favour after that stalking case. 

Lestrade calls next and says, sounding strangely excited, “There’s another one you might be interested in.” 

They go over to the crime scene. This one is a presumed suicide, but the note is obviously placed there afterwards, and Sherlock is now fairly certain these deaths are nothing but a vehicle to get the notes across. This one is written in pictograms, but not in hieroglyphic script. They’re neither hieratic or demotic and Sherlock, to his enormous frustration, can’t read it either. 

So they visit a retired curator - an elderly woman, Sherlock can see the same knitting needles in her handbag that Mrs. Hudson favours - and leave it with her. 

After they’ve walked out of the woman’s house and her offer of tea, they hear back from Dr. Barnett. “It’s not numbers at all, it’s a letter-by-letter spelling. It spells S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K H-O-L-M-E-S.”

Sherlock can feel his heart skip hearing that, not sure whether it’s fear or excitement. This is _personal_. 

He’s thinking – who? Why? When there’s a call from Lestrade. 

“Right, there’s another one. You’ll never guess the address.” 

When he says it, Sherlock can feel a pang of nausea. It’s the same building where they worked their first case. _The pink lady._ Sherlock glances at John, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed. 

Of course not, why would John even remember the address? It’s been seven years. 

But on the cab ride there, John seems oddly nervous. His hand is shaking a bit. Sherlock’s not sure why, there is no plausible reason he can deduce except potential worry about this case, but then John’s hardly ever _worried_. He has his gun on him. 

Just as the cab rounds the corner, Sherlock’s phone goes again. It’s the specialist in Arabic language. She says, “Hi, yes, as far as I can see it’s a bit of a double meaning, it’s ‘will you’, ‘would you,’ ‘could you’, something like that, and then also, ‘I want you to’. If that helps.” 

Sherlock eyes John. “They belong together.”

“It’ll be a full sentence once you combine them all,” John says. 

Exactly. 

 

-

 

Sherlock walks into the building, with John behind him. There are several police cars outside, but no officers milling around. 

There is no victim, as far as Sherlock can see. Lestrade isn’t present, either. Actually, all Sherlock can see is a box sitting on the stairs, roped off by police tape. Sherlock walks up to it, intrigued. He kneels, takes his magnifier out, and studies it. It’s mid-century, an antique jewellery box. No traces of blood or hairs, so it’s very unlikely to have been the murder weapon. It doesn’t appear to be a bomb, either. 

In fact, Sherlock has no idea why it was roped off and not just taken into evidence. 

John asks, “What’s in it?” 

Sherlock stands, takes a glove in his hand and uses it to carefully open the lid. There’s a ring inside. There are no other messages he can see, but maybe Lestrade removed something from the scene. The ring is a simple gold band. It’s a bit large to be a woman’s, so probably a man’s. Brand new, as far as he can tell. Sherlock is bent over it with his magnifying glass when his phone goes, and he answers it while still looking at the ring, “Yes?” 

“Hi, yes, it’s Mrs. Peabody. You asked me to look at a note?” 

Perfect timing. “Tell me.”

“They’re signs for a bonding ceremony, specifically between a beta male and an alpha male. It’s very rare, actually. It says, ‘bond to me,’ or ‘commit to me.’ But I suppose the modern translation would be ‘marry me?’” 

Sherlock ends the call. Some sort of amorous message, then? To him specifically? He can analyse the ring under a microscope back at Bart’s. 

He can hear someone walking in and he turns around, ready to scold Lestrade for having left this evidence unguarded. Lestrade is there with, strangely, Molly. “Hi,” she says.

Sherlock frowns. Why is she here? 

Then Mrs. Hudson walks in with Violet holding onto her hand. And behind her, _Mycroft_. 

Sherlock has a moment of ice cold panic - did Mycroft gather them all here because of some threat? But none of them seem scared. Molly is offering him an eager smile. Lestrade seems sympathetic towards John. Mrs. Hudson is visibly emotional, and she wore her best coat. Mycroft is the only one Sherlock finds harder to read, but he is clearly not distressed either. Sherlock turns to John. _What?_

John takes the ring out of Sherlock’s hand with his bare fingers – he could contaminate the evidence! Sherlock would protest, but John says, “Sherlock...” 

John’s voice stills, and he smiles an oddly anxious smile. 

Then, John sinks down to sit on one knee, and he looks up and says, “William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” 

Sherlock blinks. 

“Will you…” John grins - _embarrassed, uneasy, expectant?_ “Will you marry me?” 

Sherlock deduces at lightning speed - the building they’re standing in is condemned, that’s why they couldn’t take the stairs and do this up in the room where the lady was found, probably. Molly and Lestrade added the notes to the corpses and at the crime scene, it wouldn’t have been difficult. The specialists were bribed, clearly. Mycroft must have arranged that part.

Sherlock looks back at John, kneeling in front of him. It doesn’t seem real. Why would John do this? John doesn’t want to marry him. He’s _said_ so. 

John says, some nervous humour in his voice, “Sherlock, you _are_ supposed to answer? Preferably yes, but, you know, I can…” 

_Yes._ Sherlock can hear it whispered in his mind. 

John’s face is slowly changing from anticipation to something darker. “Sherlock?”

The silence is large. 

Sherlock swallows. “Yes.” It sounds too quiet. 

John’s face pulls in emotion. “Yes, you’ll marry me?”

“Yes.” Sherlock says it louder. 

John shakes his head, laughs, and stands up. “Yeah? You want to?” 

Sherlock looks around again. Molly is smiling brightly, so is Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson is wiping away a tear while Violet is tugging on the edge of her skirt and whining to be picked up. Sherlock meets Mycroft’s eyes. He nods at him, clearly.

Sherlock looks back to John, who seems to be vibrating with the release of tension as he breathes out slowly. John takes Sherlock’s hand and slides the ring over his finger. It feels a bit warm from being in John’s grip. It fits. Sherlock looks at it, then turns to the others. 

“He said yes!” John laughs. 

“You do know how to keep it exciting, don’t ya?” Lestrade jokes. 

“Oh, boys!” Mrs. Hudson cries. 

“It’s wonderful, Sherlock.” Molly says. 

Violet shouts, loudly, “She’lock!” 

And Mycroft says dryly, “Congratulations, to both of you.” 

Sherlock can’t focus on any of them. He walks over and lifts Violet into his arms, then endures being hugged by everyone. Molly’s hug is very short, Mrs. Hudson’s is emotional, Lestrade holds on hard for a moment, and then he says to John, “Good luck with this one, mate!”

Sherlock lets it wash over him - the sounds and people and touches. 

He holds onto Violet, and strokes his thumb over the unfamiliar gold band around his finger. 

_Oh._

 

 

 

 

 


	93. (Mycroft)

 

 

When John said, with some trepidation, that there was something he wanted to talk about, Mycroft had assumed that he already knew what was on John’s mind. It seemed utterly logical that John was going to end their arrangement - either for Sherlock’s sake, or simply because the attraction between them had worn off. Mycroft had thought that he was prepared to hear it, but still he felt an undeniable pang of pain at knowing that this was the end. 

But John had said, visibly nervous, “I’m going to, um - well, I _want_ to - ask Sherlock to marry me.” 

And Mycroft had to rethink his answer. He had quickly considered all possible reasons why John might inform him of this, and then said, “…I believe it is well past time.” 

He had meant it, too. 

Mycroft helped John orchestrate something that would outsmart Sherlock for most of a day. The notes were John’s idea, but the execution was Mycroft’s. He researched the math and the pictograms, and placed people they could trust to translate the pieces and call at exactly the right times. The location was John’s idea - their first case, apparently it holds a certain significance - so Mycroft ensured their access and provided some documents and details for Dr. Hooper and Inspector Lestrade so they could play along in this charade. 

It was only a small effort on his part, really. 

But when Mycroft presented John with the detailed plan of clues and encounters, John looked at him with curious gratitude. “Thank you. This is... yeah, it’s exactly what I wanted to do.”

Mycroft did his best to remind John that it was not simply for him. “He is my brother, John. And I believe that he has wanted this for a very long time.” 

Sherlock has, Mycroft knows it for a fact. 

So it is a privilege to be part of it. 

Standing here, now, Mycroft is mainly relieved to see it has all played out perfectly. As he thought, Sherlock did not make the connection until the essential moment, and Mycroft can observe Sherlock’s utter shock. 

Mycroft watches Sherlock, and he briefly wonders at his own emotions. Should he feel jealousy, knowing that John so clearly prefers Sherlock as a partner? Mycroft cannot. It has always been true that John loves Sherlock first and foremost, and Mycroft would never delude himself into thinking otherwise. 

Mycroft can see in the glances of the others that they are somewhat intrigued by his reaction. Especially since they all know that he aided in making this a reality. 

John comes to see him and says, “Thanks,” under his breath.

Mycroft nods. 

Molly Hooper tells him, when they are filing out of the building, “I think it’s so sweet that you did this for them.” 

Mycroft tilts his head, but he does not reply. 

Sherlock brings Violet to the car, and Mycroft hesitantly puts a hand on his arm, hidden by the door from view. “Congratulations, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock looks him in the eye, and Mycroft can see it the astonishment there. Sherlock looks as if he has seen the impossible. 

It makes Mycroft smile, for a moment. 

Mycroft takes Violet home and ponders what it must be like to receive such a question. Mycroft never felt a need for marriage. The thought is entirely foreign to him and he does not wish for it. No, he can share in their joy. 

That is enough. 

 

-

 

When Mycroft goes into work the next morning, Anthea glances at his hand and asks, extremely carefully, “Did it all go according to plan yesterday, sir?” 

Mycroft gives her a thin smile, painfully aware of what she must have - wrongfully - assumed. “Doctor Watson was successful, yes. My brother agreed to marry him.”

Anthea, to her credit, manages to look as if she never thought anything else and asks, “Will there be a day off for the wedding then, sir?” 

“I would assume so, yes.” 

She looks at his stomach and offers, “A summer wedding might be prudent?” 

Mycroft sighs. “I would hope so.” He trusts they will require some months for planning this endeavour. Mycroft imagines it will be quite the celebration, and he would rather like to wear something nice.

Mycroft sits through three meetings and mediates an international shooting incident between an agent and the Crown Prince of Bahrain - truly, these things should be avoided, he cannot believe that they are not - and the middle of it, Sherlock texts him. “Most wedding venues in greater London are already booked two years in advance. SH” 

Mycroft texts back. “Irrelevant. Name your location and the date. M” None of these things are above arranging, and he will bribe anyone needed. 

He’s glad of the distraction. 

 

-

 

Mycroft goes to his next doctor’s appointment by himself. 

He is aware that if he were to ask, both John and Sherlock would come along, but he assumes that they are preoccupied right now. And he does find it easier to manage on his own. 

He waits briefly in the waiting room and eyes the posters. The model of an omega giving birth is still there in all its anatomically correct glory. 

Mycroft remembers sitting here for the very first time, feeling so distant. The moment of careful elation when he decided to have a child, and then later, a second. 

Now there are eight more weeks, and he will never be here again. 

He feels bloated and heavy, as if he should be nearer to the end than he truly is. He is not excessively large, he knows, but still the weight affects his every movement. He does not curse it, but it is so very tiring to exist in this larger body. 

Mycroft has found himself being shorter with Violet as well, less patient with her crying and tantrums. He always tries to control his responses, but it is difficult when his entire body drags, his head stabs, and Violet screams on top of it about something entirely insubstantial. Like that she cannot find a toy when it is right in front of her, or that she does not want to eat or sleep. 

Dr. Mehta lets him in. “Mr. Holmes. How are you feeling?” 

After ignoring the symptoms of a miscarriage with Violet, Mycroft has always been entirely vigilant to keep a close track of his body, so he tells her about his various muscle and joint pains, his heartburn, swollen ankles, and overly active bladder. All of these are normal, and he does not seek her reassurance, but he simply recounts his symptoms so she can keep a record of it all. 

He lies down, and the doctor measures and palpates his stomach, and then does the sonogram. The baby is moving. The circle of his head is very clear, as well as his arms and legs. When he kicks, it is even entirely obvious that it is a boy. The doctor laughs, and Mycroft allows himself a smile. 

The baby is, however, still measuring slightly low on weight and height. 

Dr. Mehta looks at him. “We might want to schedule the C-section a week later than planned?” 

It was supposed to be the first week of March. Mycroft mentally checks his calendar at mid-March. “If you recommend it.” While a change of date is somewhat bothersome, he would never disobey the doctor’s orders on this.

“Oh, we’ll see, nothing sure yet.” She eyes him as he gets up. “Anything else?” 

Mycroft tells himself that he does not feel any reluctance in asking this, and that it is a simple fact that his doctor needs to be aware of. But still he feels deeply uncomfortable when he asks, “I am still engaging in intercourse. Is there any objection against continuing until the delivery date?”

“No, not at all.” The doctor acts as if it is an entirely normal question. “You might see that it stimulates your hormones quite a bit, especially near the end.” Yes, he can imagine. “But there’s no reason not to, as long as it doesn’t feel painful.” 

He nods. 

When she’s back behind her desk to add the latest notes to his file, the doctor seems briefly amused. “How _is_ your bonded and his partner?” 

Mycroft can feel some annoyance at her asking. But she has known them all for several years now, so Mycroft replies, rather shortly, “Well, thank you.” 

She sobers at his tone, but Mycroft leaves with the clear suspicion that she believes them to be in some sort of ménage-a-trois. He finds it rather disturbing, whenever he thinks on it too long. But then he has learned to ignore other’s opinions, naturally. There are always those of importance to consider, but the rest of humanity does not matter to him.

One never gets far in life if they live it in a way that requires the approval of others.

 

 

 

 

 


	94. (John)

 

 

John still can’t entirely believe that he really did it. He’ll half-forget that it even happened, and then suddenly it’ll slam back into him that yes, he really did go down on one knee and _ask Sherlock to marry him._

John can’t help but smile when he remembers Sherlock’s expression of utter confusion. John had been nervous as hell all through the day, but in the end, it had worked perfectly. Mycroft’s notes had been too difficult for Sherlock to decipher on his own, their contacts acted accordingly in their roles, and Sherlock hadn’t suspected a thing. 

Not even when they drove to the same house where the case of the pink lady started it all - John got shivers when he was walking in and saw the abandoned staircase again. The building’s up to be demolished, but Mycroft got them in there, and it was definitely the right place for it. 

John had thought about asking Sherlock privately and letting it just be the two of them there, but then he realised why he’s doing this. It’s about promising forever to Sherlock in front of everyone, isn’t it? So John invited the people they know best. They were only too happy to play along. 

John thinks Greg got a wry sort of pleasure out of goading Sherlock along all day, and Molly was perfect at playing innocent. Violet wasn’t particularly bothered - she’s too young to get it. But Mrs. Hudson was utterly delighted when John first went down to her flat to ask her for Sherlock’s hand, and then later when she saw him propose. 

And Mycroft... well, John can’t imagine him not being there. 

For both of them. 

 

-

 

Afterwards, John takes Sherlock to dinner. 

Just to Angelo’s, which was a bit predicable, probably. But then, that’s what they did on their very first case, so it felt right to call Angelo to reserve the table right by the window. He even put a candle on there for them. 

Sherlock seems happy enough with it, anyway. He keeps on awkwardly touching his ring, which makes John grin. He’s clearly not used to wearing one. 

They order, and John jokes, “So, you’re good with sharing being married to your work with being married to me, then?”

Sherlock glances at him. “I lied when I said that.” He continues, entirely seriously, “I assumed that you were looking to have a sexual relationship with me. It seemed like the most logical refusal.” 

John laughs at his sincerity. “Yeah, I got that. Eventually.” 

Sherlock nods, but he still seems hesitant about something. “John…” He pauses. 

John leans forward on the table. “You okay?” It has been quite the day. Maybe this wasn’t exactly what Sherlock had in mind when he imagined a wedding proposal? John tried his best to come up with something Sherlock would like, but it was bloody hard to be honest. John was a bit surprised at how long it took Sherlock to get it, too. Maybe it would have been better if it had been just the two of them? 

Sherlock asks, “Are you entirely sure that you want to marry me? Even though our relationship is not... satisfactory?”

John can answer that with absolute certainty. “Yeah. I was sure years ago, I just didn’t know it yet. Or we didn’t know how to...” That was it more, wasn’t it? They didn’t know how to do this. But he’s sure of one thing: “I want to, Sherlock. I’m here for as long as you’ll have me.”

Sherlock blinks. 

John reaches out and takes his hand, then tangles their fingers. “We did it, yeah? We figured it out.”

Sherlock nods slowly. “...Yes.” 

John smiles. They really did.

 

-

 

The next day, Sherlock starts off with a hesitant, “What sort of wedding would you like, John?” 

John knew this was coming, and he fights the instinct to shrug and say ‘whatever you want’, because that’s what he did with Mary. Back then, it was Sherlock frantically planning all of it, and it was a perfectly fine wedding, romantic and all that, but it hadn’t felt a thing like it was his. So John says the first thing that comes to mind, “I want it in London.” 

Last time, with the flowers and greenery and the charming landscape, it didn’t feel like his own. 

“Proper, central London.” He looks around at Baker Street. That’s sort of what he’d want. “An old building, something, I don’t know. Lots of wood, interesting. Victorian, maybe?” He looks at Sherlock. “Would you be up for that?” 

Sherlock seems surprised that he said that much. “Yes.” 

“Not loads of flowers or anything. I mean, I guess if you want to, but...” John’s not really a flower sort of guy. “No bridesmaids.” Never again. “Decent food. Nothing too fancy, just nice?” 

Once John starts talking, it becomes easier to describe it. “Something the kids can come to - Violet should be there, yeah? The baby. Mike’s kids, as well.”

Sherlock looks at him with a considering expression. 

“Music, to dance to after. Maybe live?” John doesn’t want it to be anything at all like his last wedding, but that’s not why he’s saying this. It’s his chance, their chance, really, to make it a day for both of them. “I’d like to dance with you. A proper waltz, you and me.” John winces. He’s not sure he remembers how. “You’ll have to teach me again, though.” 

Sherlock nods, and there is something gentle on his face that John would love to kiss away. “I will. John.” 

John doesn’t remember contributing more to his wedding with Mary than “I’m not wearing that.” But now, he’s actually feeling pretty interested in planning this thing. He grins as Sherlock takes his laptop and starts making a detailed list. 

It’s going to be great. 

 

-

 

John spends his afternoon volunteering at the veteran’s centre. He’s helping out with group therapy, listening to soldiers recount in slow, tedious detail what it feels like to come home from the war disabled. John’s nodding at the appropriate intervals as a lieutenant says, “It’s not my fault, right? I need to keep thinking that. It’s not my fault.” 

They all have cups of tea. John’s has gone cold. Eventually, he points to it, mumbles, “Refill” and hurries away to the kitchen. 

Once there, John checks his phone and sees that he has a grand total of twenty-three unread messages. 

John opens them, immediately sure it’s a case. But no. It’s copies of a conversation about _wedding venues_ between Mycroft and Sherlock. They’re discussing Tower Bridge. Parliament. The National Portrait Gallery. 

John breathes out a slow breath and types, “Maybe think a bit smaller, yeah? JW” He’s not going to invite half of London to his wedding just for the hell of it. It’s for the people who know them. 

Mycroft replies with a description of a chapel in Westminster Abbey, and John rolls his eyes and privately texts Mycroft the aubergine emoticon without any explanation, knowing it’ll annoy him. He’s also wondering whether Mycroft will get the meaning. John feels a brief hint of arousal - it’s been a couple of days, maybe tonight he can go by?

He puts his phone on silent and goes back in with a fresh pot of tea at “...keep on seeing it. Myself, walking. And then I can’t... I’ve got nothing left. I’m nothing, you know?” 

John dutifully says, “Yeah, it can be hard, getting back afterwards. Finding your place and all that.” 

He’s got nothing more to contribute as the conversation moves on towards dealing with nightmares, and to be honest, he’s hardly listening. 

_Wedding venues._ He should probably be freaking out a bit about that around now, but weirdly, he’s not. John’s sort of looking forward to it, really. He feels nothing like that slow, nauseating wave of fear that even thinking about marrying Mary had brought.

After group therapy’s done, John opens his phone to Mycroft’s reply. “I do not care to know what you are insinuating, John. M” 

Hah! So he _does_ know. John grins and types, “Want me to show you tonight? JW” 

Sometimes when he gets too lewd, Mycroft refuses to answer. John suspects he finds it proper funny at times too, though. John can imagine Mycroft perfectly, sitting carefully leaned back against some pillows with his rounded stomach ahead of him, and a brief flicker of a smile crossing his face as he reads the message and then focuses on work again. 

John probably shouldn’t find that as sexy as he does. He never had a particular thing for pregnant omegas. Or for Mycroft’s type, really, but dammit if the thought doesn’t get him aroused. He presses it down. It’s a promise for later.

He texts Sherlock, “Want me to pick up something for dinner? J” 

Sherlock says, “Cauliflower, parmesan, saffron. SH” So John detours to the shop. 

On the way, Mycroft sends, “You can come by at ten. Regardless of your emoticon use, although I am deeply disturbed by your suggestive use of vegetables, John. M”

John laughs, and he’s about to answer when Sherlock sends in rapid succession, “Also milk. SH” “Yes, really. SH” “Not a joke, is key ingredient in cauliflower ragout. SH” “...Apparently. SH” “If all else fails, pizza. SH” 

John smiles the whole way through shopping.

 

 

 

 

 


	95. (Sherlock)

 

 

When Sherlock proposed to John, almost two years ago now, he had thought marriage to be a detail. It had seemed like a socially accepted way of bonding to a beta that was a legality, nothing more. 

How wrong he had been. Sherlock can see that now. He can _feel_ it. 

He never imagined that John would go back on his refusal. Sherlock was convinced that John would eventually choose someone else. That John didn’t consider him worthy of marriage, lacking as he is. That it was never going to be their reality. But John’s proposal has proven him wrong, and Sherlock can feel the meaning of that ebb and flow through his mind. 

Sherlock made certain to clarify, but John seems to want him, glaring flaws and inadequacies and all. John said, “I’m here for as long as you’ll have me.” And the meaning of that is still... Sherlock can barely believe it. 

He had never truly allowed himself to want this. 

 

-

 

John leaves to go to Mycroft’s in the evening, and Sherlock takes advantage of the free night to go out himself. He texts Molly, fairly sure he’s correct about her schedule. “Night shift? SH”

She replies, “Yes, I’m starting in an hour, come on down!”

Sherlock throws his coat on and walks to Bart’s. It’s cold out, but London is gorgeous tonight with a bright moon and a clear sky. 

Sherlock beats Molly there. He is already in the morgue, ignoring the last of the day shift imbeciles, when Molly comes in. Her cheeks are red from the cold, and she is taking her mittens off. “Sherlock! Were you bored tonight?”

“Yes, John is with Mycroft. Having sex.” 

“Oh.” Molly smiles, clearly uncomfortable with the subject itself, but also very eager to show that she is all right with it. “That’s… nice.” 

Sherlock has a corpse in mind he wants to see. “Show me the autopsy results of Aayush Deshpande, liver cancer.”

Molly lets him work for at least half an hour, comparing blood samples and toxicity levels in the urine. It’s not essential work, but Sherlock likes to build on his existing cross-references. And Baker Street gets quiet when he is alone at night without John or Violet. 

It won’t be as quiet soon enough, when the baby is born. But for now, Sherlock enjoys this, too. Sitting in the lab with Molly working a couple of benches over, absorbed in her paperwork. 

The silence doesn’t last. Eventually Molly asks, tentatively, “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock is busy counting bacterial colonies on an old slide and he doesn’t reply.

“John being with Mycroft, is that… does it really not hurt you?” 

Sherlock glances up to see Molly worriedly biting her lip - it makes her look like an advert for ‘kind concern’. She _is_ attempting to be kind. Sherlock knows that, but he is also aware that she won’t understand. Of course it hurts. Every single time. But then it feels right when John smiles, too. Or when Sherlock catches a rare look of deep fondness on Mycroft’s face. When he can smell their scents mingled together when he bonds. _When John proposed._ “No.”

“But how do you let him go like that? It’s just, they kiss in front of you, too. Doesn’t it make you… sad?”

Out of all the words Sherlock could choose, sad would not be it. It’s frustrating, annoying, painful. He feels grateful to Mycroft as much as jealous of him. Glad for John’s happiness as much as irritated that he’s not the one to give it to him. 

“We’re getting married.” Sherlock does his best to smile. “I’m not _sad_.” 

Molly quickly changes her approach. “No, no, you don’t seem it.” She looks him over. “But are you happy? Properly happy, I mean.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “No one is ever _properly_ happy, Molly.”

It makes her laugh. 

Sherlock bends back over his slide and thinks of John. John _is_ happy right now, it’s clear in his body language. The volunteer job is not nearly enough to keep John busy, but he has been managing better than Sherlock had predicted. The sex seems to help. 

Mycroft is another story. Sherlock can deduce Mycroft’s physical pain as well as his sexual satisfaction – it’s a rather strange look on him. But Mycroft also seems worried more often than not. He has been entirely forthcoming on helping with the wedding, though, much more so than Sherlock had ever expected. 

Sherlock eyes Molly. “Do you happen to know of a Victorian era building in central London that can be rented for a wedding ceremony, preferably intimate and full of character?” 

“Um… no?” 

Worth a shot. Sherlock bends back over his microscope. 

They take a break for tea later, and Molly doesn’t say anything like that again. Instead, they talk about the abnormal blood results she found in a toddler, which gives Sherlock a thought, and he runs off and leaves his cup of steaming tea behind. 

He is already outside in the freezing cold when he realises it is the middle of the night. 

Sherlock has time to miss the tea he left behind when he spends over an hour waiting for a key so he can let himself into the crime scene that had been persisting in the back of his mind since he first read about it years ago. He manages to take samples that will likely prove his theory. Not that there was a murder here, just that there was lead in the pipes. 

It is six AM by the time he gets into bed, pleased at having adequately solved the mystery. 

 

-

 

John comes home at one point as well, because when Sherlock opens his eyes, John is gently snoring next to him. He smells like Mycroft - Sherlock rolls closer and sniffs John’s neck. John makes a small sound and lets him, so Sherlock licks him a little. He bumps his forehead there and falls asleep again. 

When he starts awake, it’s because John abruptly says, “Oh Jesus, it’s eleven!” 

Sherlock groans and stretches. He doesn’t mind, really. But John seems astonished. He sits on the side of the bed, rubs his eyes and says, “Haven’t slept in that late in ages.” And then, “I did buy breakfast, if you’re interested. Or well, lunch by now.”

They get up and sit in the kitchen - Sherlock in his pyjamas and dressing gown, John in his wrinkled clothes from last night - and eat baguettes. 

Sherlock says, “I solved a seventeen-year old case of insanity last night.” 

And John says, “Yeah?” with that bemused smile as Sherlock explains his findings. 

Later, when John is in the shower, Sherlock’s phone vibrates. It’s Molly texting him a picture. “I’m not sure if you wanted a church, and it’s not Victorian, but I go here sometimes. I thought you might like it.” 

Sherlock immediately googles it, and she is right. She is absolutely right. Sherlock shouts, “John!” and says, “Molly found it. Our church.” 

John comes over and briefly lays a hand on his shoulder as he leans to look at the pictures. John breathes in a shaking breath, and then says, “Yeah. All right. You’re right, that’s it.”

Sherlock texts Mycroft. 

It’ll be _perfect_.

 

 

 

 

 


	96. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft is feeling the strain of a third-trimester pregnancy combined with an active sex life. He _aches_. After a night with John, his thigh and arm muscles feel weak. His back is strained, his hip shoots sharp pains, and his legs tremble. He feels swollen, pulsing with the memory of John inside of him. 

And still, he craves it. 

They are rapidly running out of time, and as Mycroft grows bigger and more unwieldy, the sex is more difficult on a physical level - they have to work around his stomach and he is not nearly as flexible or manoeuvrable as he would be normally. But it is also even more pleasurable, to the point that Mycroft finds it hard to stop. The only reason they do is because there is a limit to John’s stamina, but even then Mycroft can feel the urge for more. 

It is embarrassing. Although John seems to find it flattering more than anything else. 

In fact, John seems to enjoy it still, which continues to surprise Mycroft. John will touch him so languidly and then make him orgasm with such intensity that it seems as if he does it for the both of them. 

Mycroft would feel guilty of his indulgence - he frequently allows John to touch him instead of the other way around - but then John spills within him again and again. John groans, and laughs, and says, “Bloody hell!” 

And so they continue. 

They tend to lie together in silence afterwards as their child turns and kicks in Mycroft’s belly as a reminder of all they have, and all they will lose. 

John only asks to come by around twice a week, which Mycroft is glad of physically, but the nights he lies alone in his bed he furtively wishes for John’s touch. But then the nights John _is_ there, Mycroft oftentimes feels contrary. He feels unwilling to ask for more, but also unwilling to remain silent. It is a strange situation, and he finds it difficult to cope at times. 

To remain rational in all of this. 

 

-

 

The next week, Mycroft goes to Baker Street, sits down on the sofa, and Sherlock wordlessly curls up behind him and leans in to bond. 

John is at his volunteering work, and Mrs. Hudson is still out with Violet at her knitting group, so they can have relative peace and quiet.  
Mycroft is grateful for it. 

The warmth courses through him, and for a moment the grind of the day lessens. His splintered thoughts quiet. The sheer weight of his stomach and the pull of various ligaments and joints seems to fade for a moment. Mycroft leans into Sherlock more freely than he would have done two years ago, but Sherlock does not seem to mind. He nuzzles close, and Mycroft closes his eyes. 

He does not fall asleep, but he is dozing somewhat when he feels Sherlock’s hand reach out and tentatively touch his stomach. The baby kicks at it, as if to prove a point. 

Mycroft turns his head, and Sherlock is looking at his hand in fascination. Then, as he realises Mycroft’s awake, Sherlock says, “You don’t sleep enough.”

He sounds concerned. Mycroft sits up, effectively dislodging Sherlock’s hand, and says, “The downsides of pregnancy, Sherlock.” He takes a pillow, pushes it behind his back, and sits a bit more comfortably, at least until his back spasms again. 

Sherlock looks him over. Then his eyes wander back to his stomach. He is plainly curious, so Mycroft indulges him, “His feet are here, to the side.” 

Sherlock nods and then carefully touches Mycroft’s stomach again. He is clearly hoping to feel the kicks, but the baby does not cooperate. 

After a long moment, Sherlock gives up.

Mycroft feels for him. “His movements will be clearer once I am further along.” He even admits, “Near the end, Violet was capable of kicking a full glass of water from my stomach.” Mycroft never told anyone that. He tried it multiple times, because he found it somewhat amusing, but mainly comforting to see her strength displayed so plainly. He had been immensely relieved to feel Violet move with such vigour. 

Sherlock grins. “Really?” 

“Yes.” Mycroft smiles at the memory. Violet was quite the character _in utero_ already. Mycroft wonders at this child. Is this baby quieter than Violet was? Mycroft finds it hard to remember exactly how much Violet moved when he was seven months along. Was he more attuned to her every movement? 

Mycroft finds himself drifting outside of his body quite a lot as well, as he remembers John and their activities. 

If he weren’t absolutely certain that sex is not harmful for his child he would never engage in it, of course. But the doctor assured him, and everything he read seems to agree on the matter as well. It is safe. 

It is simply a mental burden to bear. 

 

-

 

A few minutes later, the door opens downstairs. It’s Mrs. Hudson, accompanied by a busily chattering Violet. Mycroft cannot make out any of her words, but he can hear from the shrill notes in Violet’s voice that she’s excited. She is probably over stimulated as well – Mrs. Hudson insists on feeding her sugar and Violet does not always take it well. 

Mycroft moves forward, and with a bright stab of pain to his hip he hauls himself off the sofa. The bliss of bonding is already forgotten under the strain of moving again. Sherlock is watching him with a frown, and Mycroft gives him a brief nod. Yes, he is in pain. There is nothing to be done about it. 

Mrs. Hudson opens the door, and Violet runs in. 

Sherlock hugs her, and Mycroft answers the customary, “How are you feeling Mr. Holmes? It isn’t very long to go now!” while Violet says her goodbyes. 

That night, he gets a text from John. “Mrs. Hudson was up here. She’s ‘ever so happy for you’ you know, she can’t stop talking about the baby. JW” 

Then, “Sorry I missed you. You okay? JW”

Mycroft considers the question. Violet, in the hour or two she was awake, sped around the kitchen, fell and cried, then cried some more when she had to get into the bath. Then again when she had to get _out_ of the bath. It was a struggle to dry her off, and to get her into her pyjamas, never mind making her go to sleep. Mycroft had to go into her room four times to calm her down because she was screaming herself into hyperventilating. 

And in the middle of that, Anthea called to say that another agent in South Africa lost contact and is most likely deceased. 

Violet is still occasionally sniffling in her sleep right now, so Mycroft cannot fully focus on work because he needs to check on her regularly. His legs ache, he feels hungry but also mildly nauseous, and he cannot get comfortable no matter how many pillows he applies behind his back. He is also only too aware that he will need to urinate again within ten minutes, even though it has only been half an hour. 

He replies to John, “I am currently wishing for a cigarette, whisky, complete silence, and the energy to work through the night. M” 

John texts, “That bad? I can’t give you any of that, but… want me to tell you what I’ve been thinking of? You. All day. J”

Mycroft closes his eyes. He knows it’s a lie. But then what does it harm, to give into this fantasy of being desired. Being _wanted_. He texts back, “You flatter me, John. M” 

The reply is almost instant. “I want to smell you. Even just that gets me hard, you know that? J”

Yes, Mycroft does know that. It is the sheer power of his hormones, and he feels a brief wave of melancholy. What John claims is true right now, but it will not be for much longer. Keeping that in mind, Mycroft resolves to enjoy these unexpected moments. He types, somewhat awkwardly, “I experience something similar when I can smell you. M” 

The truth is that John’s scent makes a dull heat throb between his legs and a shiver spread through his whole body, especially when accompanied with John’s touch. 

“Sat there, listening to the stories, all I could think about was that. Undressing you. Taking your trousers off, getting you naked. Or as naked as you’re going to get - you wear a million layers, you know that? J” 

Mycroft smiles. “I am aware. I believe it only enhances the challenge. M”

John says, “Wish I was there. J” 

He is not, and Mycroft is not certain whether John means that he would genuinely wish to come over, or whether it is simply part of what he is imagining. “What would you like to do, John? M” 

“Get you naked. Push inside, give you all of it. J” 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. John is very clear in his description, more so than Mycroft would have thought. “You are being quite effective in distracting me. M” 

“Hmm, that’s the plan. I could lick you first, make you come in my mouth. J”

Mycroft can feel himself getting aroused at the thought, but he refuses to get up and deal with it, not like this. “You paint a graphic picture. M”

“Tomorrow? J”

Mycroft considers John’s question. It’s too soon. They can’t do this quite this often. He knows it is sheer folly. But what he says is, “Yes. M” 

Then he lays his phone aside and works on, his body protesting.

 

 

 

 

 


	97. (John)

 

 

John thinks he’s being pretty discreet while he’s texting Mycroft a bunch of dirty suggestions, but Sherlock still eyes him. 

John grins and says “Sorry,” then puts the phone aside. For now. 

When this started, John had no fucking clue that it would be like this. Just the thought of sex with Mycroft is enough to get him interested. And it’s not like he hasn’t experienced great chemistry - a good match, whatever – before, but John never seriously thought he’d have that with _Mycroft_. They’re fucking like they’re twenty instead of forty-five. 

John tries to read a bit, but his mind wanders. He really does want to go over there and fuck Mycroft into the mattress. 

And the fact is, he’s pretty sure that Mycroft’s working tonight, and that he’s tired, probably, but John’s starting to think that he’d be welcome anyway. They just roll into bed, and it works. 

John keeps on coming back to that. Sex with Mara and with all the others was fine, but it doesn’t compare to this. Sure, they have to change positions constantly because of Mycroft’s stomach being in the way, and it should be awkward and uncomfortable but somehow it’s not. Somehow, it’s still hot.

Dating Mycroft was always meant to be, well, not the _easy_ choice, but John chose it because it made some sort of sense. John got into it because he wanted Mycroft, but maybe more as a friend with benefits? He’s not sure. It’s still something like that now. They hardly have a romance, do they? They talk about Violet and Sherlock, mostly. But it’s so goddamn _nice_. John can’t stop feeling a bit amazed at it. 

He never felt this with Mara. The urge to cuddle and make sure that Mycroft’s feeling all right. And sure, it’s all hormones, but it’s not just that either, is it? 

It can’t be just that. 

Plus, it all sort of slots together, now. When John’s at Mycroft’s, Sherlock either takes Violet or he goes out on his own, so Sherlock gets to play the lone detective again every once in a while. 

Mycroft and Sherlock still get along, too. John has been keeping an eye on that - looking for arguments between them or anything to prove that this is a terrible idea, but it’s not there. Mycroft will look uncomfortable at times, but Sherlock seems fine. 

Then again, it’s hard to separate that from the wedding plans, too. Of course Sherlock’s into that. 

Bottom line is, whenever John thinks too much about what the hell they’re even doing, it seems as if it’s going to turn into a fucking mess any second, because this sort of thing doesn’t just _work_. But then all the moments in-between, where he’s just living - when he’s taking care of Violet, or cooking dinner with Sherlock, or going over to Mycroft’s - it all makes sense. 

This is his life now. And dammit, it’s not bad. 

 

-

 

John’s not sure he’s the best of volunteers, though. 

In his first month at the veteran’s centre, John missed one shift because of a case, one because of the wedding proposal, and a third because Sherlock wanted to take Violet to the doctor for a cough, and John was worried enough that he went along. 

And when he is at the centre to volunteer, he’s just not particularly good at it. 

John likes it just fine when it’s playing pool and laughing at jokes. He loves the military camaraderie, he _fits_ there, John always knew that. That part comes back as easily as breathing.

But the counselling part of it is bollocks. John had some vague idea that because he’s gone through it all himself - war, coming home injured, dealing with life - that he’d have something worth saying. And the other volunteers had practically wet themselves at the thought of him working there, too. But the truth is that he doesn’t actually have any of the answers. 

All he did was come home. 

John was ready to kill himself, and if he hadn’t met Sherlock, he probably would have. Not that day. Nor the next. But a few months more of that small beige bedsit and staring at his gun? Yeah, he would have. 

John sees no shame in that, either. His life was done at that point. _He_ was. 

And then he met Sherlock and within the day his leg stopped hurting and his life changed. But that doesn’t help any of these people, does it?

John tells them, “You just keep on living, don’t you? You keep on going, even though you’re not sure that it’s even worth it.” But he doesn’t exactly believe it himself. 

Mainly, it reminds him of the years when Sherlock was dead. Then, he kept on living because he felt he owed it to Sherlock. Sherlock couldn’t handle life, so John had to carry on for both of them. It was as much a tribute to Sherlock as a ‘fuck you,’ though. How can he even say that to anyone? It’s hardly advice, is it? 

A lieutenant with severe PTSD tells him, “I’d do anything to go back, because at least there, it made sense. _I_ make sense. The way I react, all of it.” 

And John knows he’s expected to refocus her on civilian life. They’ve got breathing exercises, even. But instead he says, “You ever consider becoming a cop? A bit of trouble would do you a world of good, what do you think?” 

John gets a good talking-to from the resident therapist after that session, something about ‘sticking to the program’s guidelines.’ But John slips the lieutenant Lestrade’s number anyway. 

It’s not a ‘one approach fits all,’ is it? 

Plus, it’s not like he’s even getting paid, so they might as well fire him. 

 

-

 

John tries to make extra time for Violet as well now that he’s home a lot. She’s been notably harder to handle lately, she’s clingy one second and pushing them away the next. Sherlock thinks that it’s because she can tell things are about to change. John thinks that it’s the terrible twos, really, but he tries to play with her more often anyway. 

Which is why he’s currently on his hands and knees on the carpet, pretending to be a horse. Violet ‘feeds’ him from a bucket, and John makes munching sounds. 

Sherlock is on the sofa, supposedly reading, but actually watching them with a deeply amused look.

John complains, “I’m too old for this.” His back aches. His knees, too. 

Violet, at least, seems properly into it. “Horsie! You’re a horsie, John!” She feeds him again. 

“Whiieee!” John says dutifully. He catches Sherlock’s suppressed smile. “Oh, you think this is _funny_ , do you?” John can feel himself start to laugh. 

Sherlock’s mouth pulls. “Obviously. You make an entirely unconvincing horse, John.” 

“All right, why don’t you come down here? Show us how it’s done.” John looks at Violet and asks her, “What do you think, do you want two horses?”

“Yes!” Violet agrees.

Sherlock actually gets up, then says, “I’d rather be the rider,” and _sits on his back_. 

John can feel an instant rush of... well, something. Sherlock doesn’t mean it like _that_. John knows he’s just playing. Violet is right here, looking at them in glee. 

So John, to make her laugh, bucks Sherlock up to dislodge him. It works, Sherlock slips, but then John sags through his arms, Sherlock bangs into him, and John’s suddenly face-first on the floor with his arse in the air, and he bursts into a breathless laugh.

That seems to set Sherlock off, who huffs an ‘oomph!’ as he rolls onto the floor, and then laughs, too. 

Violet demands, “Again!” And when they don’t reply, “John, again!”

They look at each other and start giggling all over again, unable to stop. 

Sherlock, after a minute, lifts Violet and puts her on his shoulders. He runs her through the room like that, and Violet screeches with fun when he makes a brusque stop and pretends to throw her off. 

John watches them, still smiling. They’re adorable. 

By the time Mycroft comes by, they’ve settled down a bit, but the laughter is still hanging between them. 

Mycroft walks in and asks Violet, “Did you have a good day?”

She answers, “We play horsies!” 

John has to suppress a breath of laughter. Sherlock’s eyes are still glittering. 

“Horses?” Mycroft asks, checking with them. 

“Yeah, I nearly broke my back,” John says. “While he,” - he points at Sherlock - “tried to _ride_ me.” 

Sherlock adds, completely dead-pan, “…in an entirely child-appropriate way.” 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. 

John laughs, feeling like he should probably explain - yeah, it was funny as hell, but they weren’t getting it on in front of Violet, seriously, they weren’t - but Mycroft decides on, “A shame to have missed it, I’m sure.” 

John admits, “You’d have thought we’d gone around the bend.” John glances at Sherlock. “Actually, not sure we didn’t, to be honest.” 

Sherlock says, “Imaginative play is essential for a toddler’s development, John.” 

“For adults, too.” John says, and he’s not sure whether he’s even flirting, or which one of them it’s aimed at, but it gets him a grin from Sherlock and a mildly reproachful look from Mycroft. 

John gets up, helps carry Violet’s bag, and walks both of them down the stairs. He says goodnight to Violet, “Bye Bye!” and kisses her cheek.

Then, in the hall, he leans in and kisses Mycroft.

It’s a fast kiss. John has a hand on Mycroft’s coat, pulls him in a bit, and licks his lips in a sweltering promise. “See you tonight,” he whispers. “Can’t wait.” 

Mycroft gives him a lingering look. “Tonight, John.” 

And then John goes up again and asks, “So, you ever try horsemeat?” to make Sherlock smile.

 

 

 

 

 


	98. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock had almost forgotten what John can be like when he is in a great mood. He remembers some of it from the first two years they had together - John’s smiles, John’s silly jokes, John’s dark sense of humour. John’s sheer desire for life was infectious, then. Sherlock had made a fool of himself regularly just to see John’s reaction, and they had often laughed all night.

It was never completely the same again after Sherlock returned, though. 

After Mary. 

There was always some tension between them. Sherlock could still feel the echoes of everything that pulled them apart, and he was afraid to do or say the wrong thing and lose John completely. 

They still had moments - perfect, wonderful moments. But not a lot of them. 

It was always ruined by reality afterwards, and the fact that it might have been the last time. Sherlock knew that he needed to treasure every moment John still wanted to spend with him. 

But now, John seems to be bursting with good cheer. He plays with Violet in a way that Sherlock has never seen him do before. He even continues to volunteer at the veteran’s centre. 

It’s not just Mycroft that has caused John’s good mood, Sherlock thinks. Just sex can’t make this happen, not even to John. 

It’s not merely that John left his job, either. Or that they’re about to have a baby. Or that they’re getting married. It’s none of those things by themselves, but all of it together has somehow influenced John, and Sherlock can feel it influencing him, too. 

John announced their engagement by writing a post on his long-neglected blog titled, ‘The Case of the Engaged Detective.’ It reads, _‘I’ve been told it’s well past time, and you’re right, you’re all right. It’s well past time I asked Sherlock to marry me. So I got together with some friends, and we devised a plan…’_

John tells everyone what he did, just like that. 

When John catches him reading it, Sherlock is choking back some sort of emotion that is surely unnecessary at only reading a blog post. John says, “I was going to go with ‘Say Yes to the Mess,’ but I thought you wouldn’t get the reference.” And he grins at him. 

Sherlock breathes a shaky breath and smiles back. 

They are engaged. John is his _fiancé_. Sherlock sometimes repeats the word in his mind while he feels a strange sort of disbelief.

Sherlock wears John’s engagement ring, even though it feels foreign on his finger. It is a simple gold band, exactly the right size. Sherlock develops the habit of curling his hand around it and touching it. 

John catches him at it one night in bed. He takes his hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses his knuckles. 

Sherlock feels as if he can’t breathe as John mumbles, “Love you.” 

Sometimes, very briefly, Sherlock needs to check that he is not currently in his mind palace. That he is not dreaming this reality, constructing it to keep himself alive. 

It is real, though. 

 

-

 

They decide on the wedding date. 

It can’t be April, because the baby will be a newborn then. John got married in May four years ago, so Sherlock knows not to do that, either. John chooses the first weekend of June. 

It seems very far away. 

Sherlock carefully recorded John’s suggestions, and he intends to make every single one come true.

He buys a stack of bridal magazines, takes them down to Mrs. Hudson’s, and they look through them together in her kitchen over tea and biscuits. Sherlock cuts out the relevant pages and builds them into an inspiration board, then cuts it up and pastes it in a ring binder. 

He takes it over to Molly. When she sees it, she says, “Aw, Sherlock…” and hugs him. 

Sherlock finds the hug deeply unpleasant. Even more so because Molly is wearing her autopsy visor and it bumps into the side of his face, but he makes certain to tell her, “I have always appreciated your support in matters of the heart, Molly.”

Molly gives him an odd look, then says, “You do? That’s… um, thank you?” 

She is entirely unhelpful in commenting on the colour scheme or anything relevant, but she does show him a brutally murdered door-to-door salesman, and Sherlock spends the rest of the day disproving that an elderly couple did it, so in all, he enjoyed the day. 

 

-

 

Sherlock takes the ring binder over to Mycroft’s office the next morning.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft seems worried to see him at work, as ever. 

Sherlock asks, “Do you think John would prefer peonies to mirror the wood panelling, roses for romance, or carnations for the queer significance?”

Mycroft sighs. 

Sherlock thinks he is about to tell him that he has no time for such frivolities, but Mycroft says, “I would shy away from roses. The meaning is rather trite, don’t you think?” 

He’s right. Sherlock takes a chair and sits down. Mycroft closes his laptop with the security details on the latest trade negations, and they both bend over the folder. 

Sherlock talks Mycroft through the suggestions John made. Mycroft adds some details, recommends a tailor, and leafs through the folder, scribbling notes in the margins.

Sherlock is surprised to see that more than thirty minutes have passed when Anthea comes in and says, “My apologies, but the minister has been on the line all morning.”

Mycroft nods, then says to him, “I can continue to research this if you’d like, but not until later tonight or tomorrow.” He shifts on his chair and winces. His back, again. Or still - he has been in pain for weeks now. 

Sherlock gets up and says, meaning it for once, “Thanks. Brother dear.” 

Mycroft eyes him with the flicker of doubt that is always there, looking for his cynicism. But when he does not find it, he nods. “Of course.” 

Sherlock goes home, hides the folder on top of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen cupboards, and walks upstairs to see Violet and John. 

John makes hot chocolate, and they play the Disney film about cats and all hide under a blanket as the sky darkens even though it is only afternoon. 

Violet is playing house with her cuddly toys by dinnertime. Apparently, one of them ‘has a baby in his tummy.’ And she tells it, quite gravely, “No kicking. No, you can’t hurt the baby!” 

Sherlock films her on his phone for Mycroft. 

 

-

 

Sherlock starts composing a violin piece for the wedding. 

He remembers the music he wrote for John and Mary. He can still feel the desperation of that moment play under his fingertips. He suspects that he always will. But this deserves a new melody, because they are so much more, now. 

Sherlock composes on the nights that John is at Mycroft’s. It’s easiest to do when he knows that John won’t come home, and Sherlock never sleeps well those nights anyway. Sherlock experiments with the music. The mournfulness is still there as a distant echo, but what he seems to want to compose is a full, warm, and complicated melody. There are multiple themes tangling, and he tries again and again until the layers are perfect. 

It starts snowing on a night in early February, and Sherlock stands by the window, feeling the cold radiating in. 

His feet are numb. So are his fingers, but he corrects note after note while watching the dizzying array of snowflakes fall outside. 

Sherlock catches himself closing his eyes and smiling, when he finally gets it right and ties John into the music. 

John comes home in the morning. Sherlock is asleep, curled in his chair, his bow across his lap, and still holding sheet music. 

John laughs at him and presses an ice-cold kiss onto his cheek, then makes tea. John hands him a mug, and Sherlock wraps his stiff fingers around the heat of it and looks at John’s smile in the early morning light. 

Comfort, that is what he is composing. 

Love.

 

 

 

 

 


	99. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft watches the snow outside his bedroom windows for the fourth night in a row. It is early still, and entirely dark outside.

John is pasted to his back. He is snoring mildly. Mycroft gave in to the pain relief of endorphins after their previous night-time activities and fell asleep instantly, but he woke due to the pressing need in his bladder. 

Mycroft’s eyes burn. He is tired, and he wants nothing more than to fall asleep again, but his body reminds him of its more important needs. 

He lifts the covers and moves away from John. Mycroft manoeuvres into a sitting position, then pushes himself off the bed and stands. He steps into his slippers and dressing gown. He looks back at John, who is still asleep. 

Mycroft waddles to the bathroom with a dull throbbing in his lower back. He is aware of the awkward pull of the dried semen on his arse cheeks, as well - it is hardly appealing, the aftermath of sex. 

He relieves himself, and then eyes the bath. John is asleep, so he will not miss him. The baby monitor is in the bedroom, but if Violet wakes, John will hear and he will get her. 

Mycroft decides that the soothing effect on his sore body will outweigh lying awake next to John in the pre-dawn, and he turns on the taps. 

While the bath starts filling up, Mycroft looks in the mirror. His face is deeply set with lines of fatigue. His cheekbones are less pronounced because of the pregnancy weight he has gained, making him look positively obese. His hair is on the long side, there is a curl flopping over his forehead while the rest of his hairline slowly recedes. 

When he looks down at his body, all Mycroft can see is the bulge of his stomach. Pale, stretched flesh, with the occasional shining white mark or - more recently acquired - bright red stretch marks. 

Mycroft has no idea how John can find him attractive like this. 

He wonders at himself, too, how naïve he must be to allow someone to see him in this state. He is undoubtedly grotesque. Marred, swollen and altered by the child growing inside of him. 

Allowing John close to him at this point of his life is nothing less than insanity. 

Mycroft steps into the bath while holding on tight to the sides. The heat of the bathwater stings, it lines over his back, flushes his privates, pushes beneath his belly and then over it. He feels briefly nauseous. 

He breathes out and rests his head against the cold tiles, then closes his eyes. The sound of the water running seems to echo in the bathroom. The steam hits his face. 

And then there’s a knock on the door. “Mycroft?”

Mycroft sighs. He would like to feel a stab of annoyance. In truth, he would feel more comfortable with himself if he did. He says, “Come in.” 

John opens the door and lets his gaze trail over him with an appreciative expression, as if he finds the image of Mycroft lying here in the bath, pregnant and huge, a sight he enjoys seeing. “Couldn’t sleep?” 

John has a penchant for stating the obvious. 

Mycroft says, “I believe this child has a rather cruel disposition, as he so seems to like to lean against my bladder.” Violet was exactly the same. 

John laughs. He sits down on the edge of the bath, as if he belongs here. 

Mycroft does not know if John does. He can never guess the boundaries that John seems to navigate so naturally. 

John reaches in the water and takes Mycroft’s foot. Mycroft is confused by what exactly John wants to accomplish, but he allows it, and John eases Mycroft’s foot out of the water and sets it down to lean onto his bare thigh. “Didn’t I say once you needed a foot rub?” 

Mycroft focuses on the question instead of the embarrassment of being so visible under the bright bathroom lights, and thinks back to the moment John is referencing. “I believe you suggested I go to a spa.”

“Exactly,” John says, as he digs his thumbs into Mycroft’s arch, and Mycroft can feel some long-ignored tension suddenly release. 

He has received massages from qualified staff that were undoubtedly much better than John massaging his foot, but it is the expression on John’s face and the care in his eyes which makes this impossible to endure. 

Mycroft wants to cry. It is an urge he can suppress, but there is a twang in his chest and a press behind his eyes that can only be hormonal. 

Mycroft breathes out a slow, controlled breath while John kneads circles into his arch, aware that he will never forget this moment. This, as well as the moments that came before it. He will never forget the feeling of John’s body over his. John’s deep laugh, and how it rumbles against his naked skin. 

Or the face John makes now as he asks, “Good?” There is a momentary hesitation in John’s hands as he waits for an answer. 

Mycroft manages, “Yes, thank you.”

John looks at him, and then at the bath. “You think I’d fit?” 

Mycroft has never considered it. But there is a benefit to knowing that there is only so much time, and that if he does not agree to this right now, he is likely to never have the experience. So he sits up, dislodging his foot from John’s grip, and says, “I imagine there is only one way to determine that.” 

John seems surprised by his answer. “All right, yeah!” 

The water sloshes over the edges of the bathtub as John steps in. It is an awkward arrangement. In order to fit both of them into the tub, Mycroft needs to open his legs and put one on either side of John’s torso, as John does the same to him. Truly, it is nowhere near as comfortable as bathing alone. It is hardly arousing, either. But John tilts his head back and laughs. 

 

-

 

They do not stay in the bath long. 

They return to bed, purpose clear in John’s eyes. They crawl beneath the cool blankets, their bodies still radiating heat from the bath. John’s hands reach out to frame Mycroft’s face, and he leans in to kiss him like that. 

Gently. With a soft, heartbreaking press of lips. 

Then another lingering kiss. The heat builds between them. John detours to his neck, and Mycroft leans back and allows him the space. 

John slowly moves lower. Mycroft stifles a moan. His nipples are - _ah!_ \- overly sensitive now that he is this close to delivery. John scrapes his teeth there, and Mycroft shudders. 

John looks up at him, and Mycroft says, certain of his own arousal, “Let me taste you.” 

John does. They have done this often enough to know that it works best if Mycroft himself stays on his side, and John moves up the bed. Like that, Mycroft can take him into his mouth. 

Mycroft does not hurry. He enjoys feeling John harden on his tongue, and to feel his thighs start to tremble. It is a pure pleasure to smell John, to tongue the smooth head, and to brush his lips over the length of him. 

Mycroft only stops when the angle becomes uncomfortable. 

John returns and kisses him heatedly. John pinches his nipples, then slowly runs his fingers nearer and nearer to where Mycroft wants them. 

John teases him for a while, then presses his fingers between Mycroft’s arse cheeks and slowly fingers him like that. Mycroft wants to put his legs around John and keep him there, but he is not nearly flexible enough to do that. He can feel a knot in his throat as he says, into the half-dark, “John.”

John stops. He hands him a pillow, and Mycroft turns around, feeling a deep, dull thrum. 

Mycroft puts the pillow under his hips, and John’s penis brushes his arse cheeks. It slides and spreads the wetness around in a lewd move that never fails to make him flush because yes, he is _that_ wet. 

John says, sounding affected, “Hmm. Delicious, that.” 

Mycroft does not answer. He never does. 

John pushes in with confidence, knowing he can take it. Goose bumps dance over Mycroft’s skin, and for a moment, he cannot breathe for the rush of pleasure gathering inside of him. 

John whispers into his ear, “I want it to last forever.” 

Mycroft can only agree. 

John pulls back, and thrusts in again leisurely. Then again, and again. 

Mycroft gathers his voice, warning him that he cannot hold this position for very long. “John.” 

John breathes and says, “Yes, yeah, I know.” 

He starts to move faster, with a definite goal in mind now, and Mycroft can feel a deep satisfaction at it. He closes his eyes, and rocks into John’s every movement. All that is left is _this_.

Within a few moments, John comes inside of him. 

John pulls out, and Mycroft rolls onto his side, his entire body still pulsing with desire. He struggles to get the pillow from under him, and John has to help. 

It is hardly sexy. 

John reaches for the side table. Mycroft keeps the dildo there that he occasionally used on himself before John. He never meant to show it to John, but then that is another resolution that changed, another thought for the heap of indignities and shameful details about himself that John has uncovered. 

John finds it, Mycroft raises his weight for a painful second to move his hips, and then wantonly opens his legs. John rests the dildo against his skin. It feels cold and foreign. It is bigger than John, modelled on an alpha’s penis. 

John takes Mycroft’s erection between his lips, then pushes the dildo into him, and Mycroft feels a dizzy rush of desire. “Oh!”

He only realises he has said it aloud when he hears John’s amused chuckle, and then feels the movement of the dildo again. The dual sensation is spectacular. 

Mycroft teases his own nipples, and the tension of the dildo moving inside his body transforms from pleasure, into a deep need that must be filled. John’s sucks turn desperate, and Mycroft closes his eyes and nearly cries out again as he orgasms. 

Mycroft isn’t certain whether he sleeps then, but he dozes next to John’s warm body. 

When the alarm goes, John groans and finds his lips for a gentle, uneven kiss. 

Then they get up. 

 

-

 

Later that day, Mycroft is in his office, working - always working - and trying not to feel the sleepless echoes of John’s touch. 

He is not entirely successful, which is why Mycroft immediately checks his phone when the text alert vibrates. 

“We’re taking Violet to the park to play in the snow, you want to come? J” 

Mycroft hesitates. He knows that he does not have time to spare. If he leaves now, he will need to work until midnight tonight.

But he takes his coat and goes. 

He walks up to the park carefully. The snow was falling for most of the night and the top layer is fresh, but there might be icy patches underneath. Mycroft is aware that the cold won’t do his back any favours. But to his surprise, he does somewhat enjoy the sound of the snow crunching under his shoes, the cold air, and the oddly tinted grey brightness of the sky. It looks like it might snow again. 

Mycroft observes the way the snow has outlined the firs, the water fowl, and the other visitors in the park. When he spots John and Sherlock in the distance, they look as though they are having a stand-off. Each is threatening to throw a snowball, while Violet is wildly running between them, clearly having the time of her life. 

Seeing her joy, evident even from a fair distance away, makes Mycroft glad that he decided to venture out here today. He should not miss these moments in Violet’s life. He watches them for a moment. 

And then, with unexpected inspiration, Mycroft reaches down to the top of a nearby low wall and grabs a handful of snow. He presses it into a ball, small enough to hide in his gloved hand, and then walks up to them. 

Violet runs towards him, crashes into him with her characteristic delight, and hugs his legs. 

Mycroft smiles. “Hello, my darling.” 

Violet is red-checked and bright-eyed as she chatters, “Look, snows! It’s snows!” 

“Yes, do you like it?” Mycroft is already fairly confident of her answer.

“It’s cold!” She squeals, entirely enthusiastic. Mycroft envies her simple joy sometimes. 

John and Sherlock walk up as well, both having discarded their snowballs. John smiles and says, “Hi, you.” 

Mycroft addresses Sherlock and says, “A _snowball fight_. Sherlock, really?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It’s not because you always consider yourself above such things that –“ Mycroft, in one smooth movement, sticks his snowball underneath Sherlock’s scarf. 

Sherlock gasps for air, digs out the snowball, and gives him an utterly insulted look. “ _Mycroft!_ ” 

“...You were saying?” Mycroft grins. 

And Sherlock’s outrage turns into surprised laughter. 

John is cracking up by his side. “Oh, he _got_ you!”

Sherlock picks up a handful of snow, and flicks it over the both of them. “ _Oops._ ” Then he lifts Violet, and dances out of the way with her. 

Violet’s giggles echo through the park while John chases them, shouting, “Oi, that’s _war!_ ” 

Mycroft fights the urge to shake his head at them, but he cannot help but feel some merriment as well. He has not succeeded in surprising Sherlock like that in a good twenty years. Sherlock is still laughing, glancing back at him as he runs slowly so John can catch them. 

Mycroft smiles at the three of them, and looks for a bench where he can sit down while still in reach of snow, so he can roll another ball. 

He will need to defend himself, naturally.

 

 

 

 

 


	100. (John)

 

 

John feels like he’s tumbled into someone else’s life. He’s constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, because it can’t possibly stay like this. 

Mycroft, Sherlock, all three of them - it’s like they’re on a holiday from real life. Like nothing truly matters now, right before the baby’s born. They’re all good, all feeling happy. All preparing for the sleepless nights, but god - he’s in love. John’s in love with _this_ , with making Sherlock giggle, with running around like children in the park, with offering to get into the bathtub with Mycroft and Mycroft actually letting him do it. 

It’s hardly perfect. They are planning a lot - the wedding is a headache to get the details down, and they need to arrange things for the baby, too. 

Most of that is Mycroft’s doing, but John and Sherlock do look for a separate toddler bed for Violet and install it in the bedroom. They buy a changing table for the bathroom, and put the bottles ready in the kitchen. John climbs up to the loft to find Violet’s old bouncy chair and tries to get the dust off. 

Mycroft brings over a collection of new baby clothes and nappies. They’re so tiny, John has to stare at them for a moment. 

It’s easy to forget that the baby’s going to be here so very soon. The doctor has scheduled the C-section for the second week of March, so there’s only a good month more to go until John will get to hold his son. 

He can feel a strange panic at times. 

John has no idea what to do. Or what to _say_ \- he remembers Sherlock’s adorable speech to Violet when she was born, Sherlock told her, ‘I am Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, your uncle.’ But John doesn’t know how to look at a little face and say, “I’m John Watson, your dad.” 

He’s not sure he’s going to do that, anyway. They did agree on it being more like with Violet, and it’ll be weird if John’s ‘dad’ to only one of them. He’ll just be John, then. The other half of the kid’s DNA. 

Just John. 

 

-

 

The next day, John brings it up with Mycroft when they’re in bed together. “You ever think about what he’ll look like?” John nods towards Mycroft’s stomach and says, knowing it’s bound to get a reaction, “Maybe he’ll have your nose, too?”

“I would hope that we would care for him no matter what, John.” 

Mycroft’s kidding. John laughs into Mycroft’s shoulder and presses a quick kiss there. 

Mycroft looks at him. “I did wonder…” 

“Yeah?” It sounds serious. 

“I have already chosen a first name.” Oh, names, right. John hadn’t even thought of that. “But perhaps you would like your middle name to be passed on?” 

_No_ , that’s all he can think. No fucking way. John says, “No, Hamish is my dad’s... His dad’s, too. I don’t want my kid…”

“Of course.” Mycroft knows enough to leave it at that. 

John takes a while before he can look at him again. “Sorry.” 

“I can understand not wanting that tie to your family, John.” Mycroft adds, darkly, “And that you would never wish to repeat their mistakes.” 

John knows that’s true. He’s seen the way Mycroft acts around his own father - there’s clearly not a lot of love lost there. John doesn’t know what happened, but he guesses the baby’s not going to be named after Daddy Holmes, either. 

John tangles his fingers with Mycroft’s, feeling a bit like an arse. It was properly nice of Mycroft to suggest it. 

Mycroft takes John’s hand and moves it right to where he can feel the baby kicking. 

John knows he should feel a lot of things at that. Discomfort - fear, maybe, that the kid’s almost here. But all he can think to promise the baby is, ’I won’t be like him.’

John’s never going to be his father. 

 

-

 

Violet’s nagging. 

Sherlock’s busy with an experiment, Mrs. Hudson’s not home, and Violet’s always happier when they take her out anyway, so John takes her to the shop and promises they’ll go see the ducks if she’s good – which pretty much constitutes not breaking down into a full tantrum at this stage. Apparently, being two is hard work. 

John is in the middle of Tesco’s baked goods aisle, keeping an eye on Violet while he reaches for the bread, when he nearly bumps into Sarah. 

She recognises him first. “John? John Watson?” 

John nods. “Oh, yeah, hi. Sarah.” It’s been ages. 

John grabs Violet by the hood of her coat before she makes off with someone else’s shopping. Violet thinks nothing of stealing things from other people’s baskets - John learned that one the hard way when he had to chase her through the vegetable aisle last week. “Violet, say hello.” 

“No!” Violet looks up with an expression that’s so like Mycroft’s it makes John smile - all _disdain for the lower classes._

“...Right. Well, this is Violet.” 

Sarah seems a bit hesitant. “Is she… I mean, I know you and Sherlock are, well. I heard from the blog. But…”

John doesn’t care. Not anymore. “She’s Mycroft’s. Sherlock’s brother. We’re her other parents, though.” 

“Oh, that’s…” Sarah gets a confused look in her eyes. “Nice?” 

“It is. How’ve you been?” 

She’s still at the same practice. She doesn’t suggest that John should come back, though. John thinks she probably has a point - he was a pretty uninspired GP. It’s one of those conversations where they both realise they don’t have anything real to say to the other anymore, so John’s mainly relieved when she says, “I have to get going.”

“Yeah, us too.” He grabs Violet’s sleeve and the bread. 

There’s still some snow in the park, although it’s looking grey and muddy by now. Violet thinks it would be good fun to play in it, John tells her no, so she has to have a bit of a cry over that, too. 

John has almost forgotten about Sarah by the time he’s managed to wrangle Violet up the stairs of Baker Street. He doesn’t tell Sherlock about it until he’s putting things away in the kitchen and Violet’s making a racket riding her little tricycle around the living room table. “Oh, I saw Sarah in the shop.” 

Sherlock looks up at him with sharp, piercing eyes.

John adds, “I just _saw_ her, not…” It’s not like he’d sleep with her again, is it? Actually, John didn’t even think of that. He’s not interested in her at all anymore. 

Later that night in bed, it makes him say, “Sherlock, you know I’m not going to get it on with someone else, right?” 

Sherlock moves a little, showing he’s listening. 

“I won’t. Just Mycroft, we agreed on that. I’ll stick to it.” John knows it’s a bit weird saying that, but he means it. He’s not going to get into that mess again. And he’s done with making Sherlock look that sad, too. That wounded. 

Sherlock hums and turns away, but he sounds pleased. 

John smiles. _Jealous sod._ Oh, Sherlock would never admit to it, but somewhere underneath it all he _is_ jealous, at least a tad. 

Just not in any normal way, maybe. 

 

-

 

The next afternoon, John’s leaning against the headboard of Mycroft’s bed, with Mycroft _sitting on his lap_.

John’s not sure how that happened exactly. He can barely breathe under the weight or see anything over Mycroft’s shoulders, but the feeling is exquisite. His cock is trapped in the heat of Mycroft’s body, and as he slowly traces Mycroft’s nipples, John can feel every tiny shiver running through him. John is barely touching him, he’s just teasing, but Mycroft is practically vibrating with tension. 

John whispers, “God, you’re so fucking sensitive” 

Mycroft is. It’s so easy to make him come. 

John makes a slow movement with his hips, lifting them both up, pushing his cock just that bit more inside of Mycroft, and Mycroft’s breath stutters. “ _John._ ”

It’s three in the afternoon. There is some bleak February winter light falling through the windows. Mycroft was resting, supposedly, but John got his text and… 

Mycroft is so wet already they’re gliding together, and it’s the hottest thing John’s ever felt. He’s hard as hell, but then that’s what it’s like these days. John traces Mycroft’s nipples again, pinches them, and Mycroft gasps, “Oh…”

“Hm,” John breathes into his ear. Mycroft’s so responsive now that he’s close to giving birth. John licks his finger and rubs a small circle around Mycroft’s nipple with it while Mycroft breathes, then runs his nail over it, which earns him a shiver. 

John moves his hips up as much as he can, a wet, hot feeling immersing him, and Mycroft _whines_.

He’s definitely into it. John can’t see Mycroft’s cock over Mycroft’s belly or even reach it like this, but he’s willing to bet it’s red and hard, maybe even leaking already. 

John tilts his hips again, a slow internal shift, and Mycroft makes another low sound. 

John’s nearly dizzy with the need to hold back. How could anyone say no to this? 

He nips the side of Mycroft’s neck, and Mycroft leans his head back. John seeks his lips and kisses him, messily. They can hardly reach but it doesn’t matter, the play of lips is intoxicating. John moves his hips during the kiss, just to feel Mycroft move with him and to feel his body contract around his cock. 

John touches his nipples again in return, and Mycroft gasps and spasms - John can feel it on his cock - for a long, hard moment, and then he relaxes again. 

Jesus. He’s close just from this and John’s hardly _doing_ anything. 

Mycroft’s legs twitch, and as John barely traces his thumb over Mycroft’s nipple he tenses again. “Ah!” 

“You coming like this?” John pushes his hips up along with the question. Mycroft shudders. 

“I could, I believe…” He sounds out of breath. 

But there’s a hesitation to it. John’s got an idea what it is. He’s never met anyone who loves being fucked that much and yet never explicitly asks for it. “You’d rather sit up?” 

Mycroft moves. He rolls off him, and John’s cock springs free. 

Mycroft takes a pillow and places it under his chest, and then - and that never, ever gets old - gets on his knees, and lies over it. He _presents_ for him. John can feel his cock bop up at the sight. That gorgeous arse, dripping wet and aching for him. 

He trails his nails over Mycroft’s inner thighs just to see him shiver. 

John gets on his knees, lines himself up, and pushes in with a wet sound. God, he’s _sopping_. Mycroft gasps, and John says, “That’s good…”

John plasters himself to Mycroft’s back. He finds a nipple again, rolls it between his fingers, and while Mycroft bucks from that, John takes him eagerly. If John were an alpha, he’d make him go into heat. He’d fuck him again and again like this. He’d push his knot in until Mycroft couldn’t take any more, he’d fill him up…

“John...” Mycroft swallows dryly. His legs are trembling. “ _Please._ ” 

John can hear the need in Mycroft’s voice. He reaches for Mycroft’s cock and gives him a couple of hard thrusts, just in time to feel him come and pull him through it.

John’s not far behind. He lets go and fucks him as hard as he can, sweating, gasping, until his whole body clenches and he comes with a long shudder. 

They roll down onto their sides and lie there, both of them out of breath. 

John kisses the back of Mycroft’s neck. His cock is still nestled in Mycroft’s arse , even as it goes soft again. John’s hand, almost out of habit, rests on Mycroft’s belly now. 

He feels fulfilled, lying here. 

John knows he’s not an alpha. He’s nowhere near that. 

But he’s never had it this good.

 

 

 

 

 


	101. (Sherlock)

 

 

There are thirty-four days to go until the baby is here, and Sherlock is prepared. 

He has done everything the books recommend. There is a brand new wooden crib - a gift from Mrs. Hudson, apparently there ‘was a sale on’ - in the living room corner. They cleaned Violet’s old playmat and toys, as well as bought some new things, like a soft cotton sling carrier. There are rompers, sleepsuits, blankets, socks and hats in the bedroom wardrobe. They have bibs in the kitchen, and newborn size nappies in the bathroom, along with nappy cream and wipes. 

Sherlock has been reading up on infant care every day. John will be home regularly now, but still he wants to be prepared for every eventuality.

Mrs. Hudson has even been by to show him how to make a bottle all over again, as if Sherlock didn’t prepare an endless succession of them the first time around - he still occasionally does so for Violet. He suspects Mrs. Hudson did it because _she_ wanted to prepare, so he indulged her. She’s been knitting booties and tiny jumpers with her knitting group, as well as pushing endless home baked cakes and sweets onto Mycroft. 

Mycroft mostly refuses them with the excuse that he’s watching his weight. Which is rather ridiculous, Mycroft’s stomach is sticking out notably despite the best tailoring money can buy. His face, wrists, and ankles are swollen. The whole of him is markedly - hugely - pregnant, there’s no denying it, and any attempt at doing so is just vanity on Mycroft’s part. 

Not that _John_ seems to mind. 

Mycroft acts haughty one moment, and then guilty the next, which is senseless at this point, Sherlock thinks. He should be glowing with health and pleasure, having John, having a baby, he has everything he could possibly wish for. 

But when Sherlock sees Mycroft pulling himself up the stairs, struggling to get up out of a chair, or looking pale and drawn in pain and sleeplessness, Sherlock finds it hard to feel anything like anger towards him. 

Not now, when John heartily laughs at jokes. When John plays silly games with Violet. When John whistles while cooking and sings badly remembered pop songs in the shower. 

Not when Sherlock is the one who will be married to John. 

John _chose_ him. Sherlock knows that that not necessarily means the same thing to John as it does to him - why would it? But it means something, and he holds on to that. 

More than that, John has been entirely forthcoming about planning the wedding. John is talking about it with obvious happiness, which is another thing Sherlock never thought would happen.

So he is counting down every day. 

To the baby, to their wedding. To happiness. 

 

-

 

John comes home in the early morning. The door creaks as he sneaks into the bedroom. 

“’m awake,” Sherlock mumbles. 

He wasn’t, not entirely. He had been in his mind palace, focusing on a double murder he read about in the paper. Something about the location didn’t quite add up. But that was - he checks the clock with blurry eyes - three hours ago. He must have fallen asleep. 

John gets in under the covers, bringing with him a wave of cool air. “Morning, then.” 

Sherlock dutifully leans closer to John so he can receive a kiss on the cheek. He swallows against the heady rush of _sex-John-need_ that comes along with it. John settles against him. The movement leaves his neck exposed and right next to Sherlock’s lips. 

Sherlock, in sheer reflex, leans in and _bites_. 

“Ow!” John moves away quickly. “…Sherlock?” 

Sherlock can feel his cheeks heat up as he realises what he just did. “I…” He has no explanation for this. Sherlock has never attempted to bond without John’s explicit permission. He shouldn’t have done that. He is getting too sure of himself, too sure of John’s affections. He took, just like that. “I apologise, John.” 

“It’s fine.” John laughs a little. “I was startled, that’s all. Go on.”

Sherlock hesitates, then presses his nose against John’s neck. He breathes in a shaky breath full of deep, sweet omega. John has only just come from Mycroft’s bed and he’s awash in Mycroft’s scent - Sherlock can feel himself being pulled in by it instantly. 

John tenses, but Sherlock barely notices it as he bites down again. It feels right. Needed. As if John is only complete when he has Sherlock’s teeth right there. 

John says, his voice a distant echo, “You feeling okay?” 

Sherlock wants to answer, but he cannot tear his teeth away, so he bites down harder. 

John’s breath stills as he breaks the skin. Sherlock can taste the metal tang of John’s blood as it mingles with his spit. Sherlock stays there a moment more before he can pull away and look at what he did. 

John is bleeding, but only very slightly. 

John sounds strange when he says, “Sherlock, do you need Mycroft?” 

_Yes. No._ Sherlock can feel that urge again, that need to taste, and bite, and _own_. It’s only gotten worse in the last few weeks. Should he leave? Is this dangerous? Why does he need John so badly now? 

“…Or you can keep on going.” 

Sherlock crawls over John’s back, holds him down, and bites his neck again. Sherlock fits his teeth there while John breathes unevenly under him. It must hurt, Sherlock knows that, but still he cannot stop himself. 

It takes too long. He gives things away that spell need and want and that are too much for John, but he can’t pull himself away. 

Eventually, Sherlock slowly nuzzles John’s neck instead. He bites gently, then licks the bruised skin. 

John asks, muffled by the pillows, “You better now?” 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. 

 

-

 

John’s neck looks like it will bruise spectacularly. 

John winces when he looks at himself in the mirror, and then tries to cover it up by saying it’s fine, but Sherlock can’t stop looking at the bite marks with a heavy weight slowly sinking in his stomach. It’s not _fine_. John isn’t his omega, and Sherlock knows that. He doesn’t need to bite, not like that, not with John. He doesn’t know why he did this. 

Is it jealousy? The kind John has spoken about, the kind other - normal - alphas would feel? 

Sherlock still feels shaken up by it by the time the nanny brings Violet, and he leaves her with John, just in case there genuinely is something wrong with him. 

Sherlock wanders through London, supposedly to go see the double murder crime scene, but not deducing much. 

He returns only when both Violet and Mycroft are already gone. 

John glances at him, but he doesn’t ask whether Sherlock solved the case. He just makes him a cup of tea and urges him to eat something. 

It doesn’t help. Sherlock can’t shake the feeling of unease in the flat, either. He regrets that he didn’t spend time with Violet now, because her scent would have settled him somewhat. Maybe he does need to bond with Mycroft, as John said. Maybe that’s it. Or maybe he’s close to a heat again? 

Maybe the constant, unsettling itch that’s curling through his spine is arousal, not alarm. 

John gets ready for bed and retires to the bedroom. Sherlock considers masturbating, but he can’t bring himself to do it. 

He feels on edge. Ready to jump at the smallest of sounds. 

Which is why, when his phone goes just after ten, he answers it on the first ring even though it is lying on the kitchen table halfway across the flat. “Yes?!”

Mycroft takes a controlled breath on the other side of the line, then says, “My apologies for not asking earlier, but may I bring Violet to spend the night?” 

“What is it?” Sherlock sounds tense - he knows he does, but he can’t stop it. Something, somewhere is _wrong_. 

“Please do not worry, I simply would like to bring Violet over for the night so I can rest.” 

Sherlock searches for the lie in Mycroft’s words - the hidden tragedy, the seriousness, the pain - but he finds nothing. Mycroft sounds perfectly composed, and if there was a true emergency he would not have bothered to call first. Still, Sherlock finds himself saying, “Come over. Now.” 

“As I said, it’s not quite that urgent…” 

“ _Now!_ ” Sherlock ends the phone call and starts pacing, waiting for Mycroft to get here. He shouts, “John! Wake up!” 

It’s Mycroft, something is wrong with him. There has to be.

 

 

 

 

 


	102. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft feels bloated. An aching, impractical collection of heavy limbs and stretched skin. 

He is a few days shy of eight months pregnant, and while a mere month more seems insignificant, it also feels insurmountable. 

His various twinges and aches all gather to create a state of continuous discomfort. No matter how he sits, or lies, or turns, he is in pain. He has not slept for more than a few hours at a time in weeks. His hip is seen to by a physical therapist every week, and he is followed closely by his physician, but there is no more they can offer him. He simply needs to bear it. 

And there is John. 

Mycroft had always known that the step back from their physical relationship would be a challenge of sorts, but he did not foresee that the sheer thought would - in the quiet, private corners of his mind - cause him a type of pain he has not felt in many years. _Heartache._

The moments Mycroft has John in his bed give him the deepest pleasure, but they are transient in nature. 

Mycroft tries to hold onto his memories of John making him laugh. How John seems to care for him. John, who was never supposed to be and never will be his. But Mycroft feels as if he has lost any semblance of objectivity. He cannot see the matter clearly when he has John near him, and he cannot when John is nowhere near him except in the child that is moving inside of him like a secret that he dare not admit. 

Mycroft cherishes his time with John, but the thought of one single month more of this while his body is so preoccupied with bringing forth another life seems impossible. 

Still, he had not realised how much he was counting on that fact, another month - _time_. 

Until the moment that he runs out of it. 

 

-

 

Mycroft feels a permeating nausea throughout the day. 

Not enough to make him feel the need to leave work, but he stops by Baker Street to collect Violet early with the intention of putting her to bed on time. He manages that - to feed her, bathe her, and put her to sleep - before he is on his knees in front of the toilet throwing up the meagre contents of his stomach.

He feels a slow, spinning dizziness. There is cold sweat prickling on the back of his neck and chilling his back. 

And then, as he carefully holds on to the toilet to stand up, he can feel a hard, painful cramp. It is enough to take his breath away. 

It leaves him trembling and uncertain on his feet. Was it significant? He has been experiencing some Braxton Hicks contractions regularly - it is quite normal for this part of pregnancy. His body is preparing to give birth, after all. 

Mycroft first brushes his teeth to get rid of the taste, then dabs a cold, damp towel on his face, uncertain of what he should do. 

It is the thought that he might faint and leave Violet unsupervised in the house that causes him to call Sherlock. 

And then, when he hears the sheer panic in Sherlock’s voice, Mycroft does call his doctor. Mycroft had been reasonably certain that Sherlock would not mind being disturbed, but it is something else to call a physician late in the evening. And worse, she agrees that it is probably nothing, but she does instruct him to come to the hospital if he feels any more pains. 

Mycroft takes Violet out of bed and wraps her in a blanket. He still feels some lingering nausea, but he is not certain whether it is the tension of this moment or a genuine medical issue. 

Perhaps he caught a stomach flu. It has been going around in Violet’s playgroup. 

His driver has gone home, so Mycroft buckles Violet into her car seat and prepares to drive himself. 

The cold causes Violet to wake up fully, and she asks, “Fah?”

“We’re going to see John and Sherlock.” Mycroft attempts to sound cheerful, as if she is getting a treat. 

He sits in the driver’s seat, clasps the seatbelt over his stomach and tries to centre himself. Traffic should be light at this time of the evening. He is only mildly ill. He is able to drive a car safely. 

“She’lock? Going to She’lock?” 

“Yes, we are. Do you want to hear about the reindeer again?” Mycroft does not wait for Violet’s reply and starts telling her the story. He does not need much focus to tell it, and it keeps her entertained as he drives to Baker Street. It is cold, and the car warms only slowly, but that is not why he feels chills play over his skin. Mycroft shudders. Perhaps it really is the flu. 

Or stress. 

When Baker Street appears, Mycroft can see the curtains upstairs move. And by the time he has parked, gotten out of the car and collected a by now wide-awake Violet from her seat, Sherlock is there to take her, with John just steps behind him

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock seems uncharacteristically anxious. 

“Nothing, I am merely somewhat ill.” Mycroft tries to appear unconcerned. 

John puts a hand on Mycroft’s arm. “You sure? You don’t look great.” 

Mycroft tells them, “I have informed my doctor, but she does not feel I should come to the hospital unless I experience any more symptoms.” 

Mycroft agrees with her assessment. He feels mostly well at the moment. Perhaps this was an overreaction? He might have been overly concerned, after all it was just some nausea. 

John says, “Right, well, either you’re staying here tonight, or I’m coming home with you.” 

Violet has laid her head down on Sherlock’s shoulder, seemingly happy to see him, but Sherlock says, while looking at him intently, “Stay here. Please.” 

“No.” Mycroft feels very little desire to spend the night in Baker Street, especially if he is going to be sick again. “I understand your worry, but I believe it to be the flu, nothing more.”

“Then I’m examining you before you go.” John’s eyes are set, and his intent is obvious - he is not going to let Mycroft leave until he is certain that there is nothing wrong. 

Mycroft can see the wisdom of being looked over by a general physician, even if it is just to put his own mind at ease. “All right.” 

John is clearly surprised that he agreed so easily, but Mycroft has no desire to take chances with his health. Not at this point in his pregnancy.

He follows the two of them up the stairs, feeling a faint, hollow ringing in his head. He might have a fever. The stairs seem high, and getting to the top of them means quite the effort. Mycroft makes it upstairs. He takes a few steps, but then holds onto the doorway, suddenly feeling a wave of dizziness. 

“Shit!” John hurries to support his arm. “You’re as white as a sheet. Lie down.” 

Sherlock quickly puts Violet down on her feet, and picks various toys off the sofa. “Yes, here.” 

John laughs a bit. “Been here before, haven’t we? That doorway isn’t good for you.” 

Mycroft intends to sit down on the sofa as John suggested, but he feels a very odd sensation - not quite a kick of the baby’s but a build of pressure, and then a tight _stab_. He stills. 

John calls, “ _Sherlock!_ ” 

Sherlock hurries over and supports Mycroft’s other arm. Then he follows Mycroft’s gaze downwards. “What?”

Mycroft can feel an unfamiliar wetness gather between his legs. It is slowly soaking his underwear. He might think he is urinating, were it not that he can clearly feel where it is coming from. Mycroft makes an abrupt move towards the bathroom. “Let me go.”

“You’re gonna throw up?” 

John attempts to support him still, but Mycroft’s fear is enough to make him move on his own power. He pushes past John and Sherlock into the bathroom, closes the door, and takes off his trousers and underwear to feel a hot trickle trail down his legs. He puts his fingers there, urgently hoping it is not blood. 

His fingers come back wet, but they are glittering with a clear liquid. 

Mycroft sinks down on the toilet in the cramped bathroom of Baker Street with a whirl of disbelief - it is too early. The caesarean was scheduled for mid-March. But yet this is undoubtedly occurring. 

His water broke. 

John calls from the hall, obviously concerned, “You feeling sick again? ...Mycroft?” 

Mycroft takes his phone and calls his doctor. As she answers, he tells her “I believe my water has broken.” 

At that Sherlock, apparently completely unconcerned with propriety, _opens the bathroom door_. Mycroft gives him with the sternest look he can manage and says into the phone, “...approximately two minutes ago.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widen. 

Mycroft listens to the doctor instruct him to come to the hospital right away, as Violet runs past John’s and Sherlock’s legs and asks loudly, “Are you doing a wee-wee?” 

Mycroft tells the doctor, “I will be there in twenty minutes.” He ends the call and tries to gather what meagre dignity he has left. “Violet, yes, I am. So please close the door.” 

John does it for her, saying, “Right, right, sorry.” In the last glimpse before the door closes again, Mycroft can see John smiling, and Sherlock’s concerned look. 

Mycroft sighs. His forehead feels hot. Chills run over his back, and he keeps on leaking a steady trickle of amniotic fluid. 

He can see one of Violet’s yellow plastic ducks lying by the edge of the bath. The moisture on the tiles suggests that someone took a shower less than an hour ago. There is a single strand of either Sherlock’s or Violet’s curly hair dried to the edge of the sink. 

He never intended this. 

Mycroft feels a stab of resentment. _Why?_ Why could he not have this child the same way he had Violet? 

He had planned it in such detail. He had foreseen the calm, quiet way in which he would say goodbye to the feeling of carrying this child. How he would go through the surgery, more familiar with the procedure now. How he would see his baby for the first time in all privacy. He wanted to wait until he was recovered somewhat and then call Sherlock and John himself to hear the joy in their voices. 

Mycroft had been looking forward to the moment where he presented Sherlock and John with the baby. To see the feeling in their eyes. 

He had wanted control of this. 

And now... He allows himself a brief moment to mourn, and then puts it all aside. He needs to be in the hospital as soon as possible. Presumably to have this baby tonight. 

John tells him - through the door - “I got some towels to sit on in the car.”

Mycroft admits, “That might be prudent.” He attempts to look downwards between his legs, but he is still wearing a heavy coat and his stomach is in the way. He takes some toilet paper and dries off, which is rather futile. 

Mycroft tries to get his clothing together as well as possible, then opens the door. 

As promised, John is there waiting for him with a pile of towels. Mycroft ignores him. He walks to the living room, where an obviously hastily-woken Mrs. Hudson is in a flower-patterned nightgown and hair rollers, talking to Sherlock. She gives him bright smile. “Oh, it’s time!” 

Mycroft nods at her, and then focuses on Violet. “Violet, I need to go to the hospital to have the baby.” 

Mycroft has talked to her about this multiple times. He has explained the fact that he will be gone for a few days. He even read her a book dealing with this scenario. 

“Going to get baby?” Violet looks up at him with large eyes. 

“Yes. You will stay with Mrs. Hudson and with Sherlock and John for a few days. Then I will be back. I promise.” 

She seems a bit upset, but Mycroft is fairly certain she understands the general idea. Mrs. Hudson is well used to taking care of her of course. Violet will be in a familiar and loving environment. But despite the preparations, Mycroft leaves Violet with a sense of guilt. He wasn’t ready, and neither was Violet. “Good night, dear.”

John follows him down the stairs, where Sherlock takes the front seat in the car – _oh lord, he is going to drive_. Mycroft can see the necessity of the situation, but he does not exactly feel at ease. Stiffly, he gets into the backseat. 

John hands him the towels, and then sits next to him, presumably for comfort. Mycroft tries to dissociate from the feeling between his legs, but at the same time it is all he can feel. The slow tension building inside of him, as well as a rolling sensation that is perhaps the baby, perhaps just his own fear. 

John tries to take his hand, but Mycroft instantly pulls it away. He has no need for that. 

 

-

 

Mycroft feels like snapping as he slowly walks though the eerily familiar doors. 

Both Sherlock and John are hovering close to his side, and Mycroft feels exasperated at the sheer insinuation that he needs the comfort of their presence for something that he has managed perfectly well alone before. 

He _wanted_ to do this alone. In truth, he would very much like to ask both of them to leave now. It is the fact that this is their child as well that stops Mycroft’s words, but only barely. 

He is assigned a private room - naturally - and a nurse wheels in the sonogram equipment, while another brings a belt to be placed around his stomach to monitor the baby’s heart rate and the contractions. It immediately catches some shivering waves. 

Mycroft has not felt this since he nearly miscarried Violet. A true contraction. 

The nurse asks, “You were scheduled for a C-section?”

Mycroft answers dryly, “Next month.”

The nurse nods. “Well, since it started naturally, you can always continue this way. See how it goes?”

“No.” 

John looks at him curiously. “You know, she’s right, you really could give it a go?” 

“No, I will have a C-section.” Did John think Mycroft would willingly endure this? Does John know him at all? 

John argues, “You won’t try?” 

And be here for twelve, eighteen hours, perhaps even more? To suffer and groan, supported by the two of them? No, there is nothing Mycroft would like to endure less. There is nothing _sacred_ in doing this naturally. Mycroft already feels plenty natural. There is warm wet fabric sticking to his buttocks. 

John looks at him as if he would like to argue more, and Mycroft - as much as he has let John see him while in the throes of passion - would like nothing more than to show him the door in this moment. 

Sherlock offers into the silence, “Extrapolating from the latest sonogram, the baby weighs approximately five pounds.”

Mycroft swallows. Yes, he is aware that the baby was measuring low on height and weight throughout his pregnancy. Thirty-six weeks is close to full-term, but technically still considered to be preterm labour.

It takes a few minutes for Dr. Mehta to arrive, as she was called in from her home. Mycroft is relieved to see her. 

She nods at him and immediately walks to the equipment. “Your water broke?”

John checks his watch and says, proving he had been keeping track, “Thirty-seven minutes ago.” 

“Let’s see how this little one is doing, shall we…” 

Mycroft clears his stomach, noticing that it is somehow different to the touch now. It feels less tight. 

The doctor pushes the wand onto his stomach, and it picks up the baby. She frowns at the screen. “His heartbeat is a little on the low side, looks like baby’s experiencing some stress.” 

The words pierce. 

“I would like to monitor you, and then we’ll evaluate in fifteen minutes.” 

“With the goal being a C-section,” Mycroft says. 

She, at least, instantly agrees. “Yes.” 

As she leaves, Sherlock immediately removes his coat. Mycroft knows what he is planning to do, and while part of him would like to disagree to doing this in public, he can feel a sense of gratitude as well. He rolls onto his side so Sherlock can get on the bed. 

Sherlock’s weight dips the mattress. There is no hesitation between them, not now. Sherlock’s body settles behind his, Sherlock’s lips press to his neck, and Mycroft closes his eyes. 

Mycroft feels oddly shaken, still. 

He can feel the warmth of bonding spread through him, but it is a comfort that feels distant in this moment. He tries to relax, but it is as if he is watching himself from afar, going through this. 

As if there is no present. 

 

-

 

Sherlock is still in Mycroft’s bed when the doctor returns. She appears entirely unfazed, takes another look at the monitor and says, “All right, I think this baby needs to be born.” 

John says, “You’re sure? You’re doing a C-section right now?” 

She eyes the heart rhythm again, and then says, clearly, “Yes.” 

Mycroft can feel a chill again. He looks at his stomach and curves his hand against it for the last time. There has always been some primal fear lodged deep inside of him that this pregnancy would not end well. It feels dangerous, now, that this child is still inside of him. Selfish, perhaps, that he felt not ready to let it be born. 

Sherlock and John are instructed to dress in another room so that they can accompany him into the operating theatre. 

Mycroft receives an IV, a gown, and then the anaesthesiologist is there to give him an epidural. Once it takes, he is wheeled through a corridor with practised efficiency and transferred to the operating theatre, where they strap him down onto a table, and drape the curtains in front of him while a nurse cheerily informs him of what is going to happen. 

The moments flutter past, but at the same time they stretch out endlessly. Mycroft feels as if he has been here for hours, and at the same time, as if he is not here at all. 

Once Sherlock and John return, both dressed in scrubs, they linger on the edge of his vision. Neither of them seems intimidated enough by the medical setting to look away, even when the surgery starts. 

The surgeon announces, “First cut at one thirteen AM.” 

Sherlock’s fingers awkwardly sneak into his. Mycroft does not have the heart to pull his hand away. 

Perhaps encouraged by it, Sherlock tells him, quietly, “They’re opening the upper dermis.” 

Then, “The fascia is exposed.” 

And, “The peritoneum.”

Mycroft does not know whether it is for his own sake or for Sherlock’s, but he does find it helpful to hear, especially because it is happening very quickly. Mycroft can feel an odd pain that he isn’t certain is the surgery, the epidural, or just his imagination. 

And then Sherlock’s, “They’re making the uterine incision, the head is out -” Conflicts with the surgeon’s, “Suction.” John’s, “He’s here!” And someone else saying, “Baby boy born. At… one seventeen AM.” 

_The tenth of February,_ Mycroft thinks. 

John steps forward, presumably to go see the baby. 

Mycroft can’t hear any crying yet. 

That worries him. _There is no crying._ Mycroft orders, “Sherlock, go.” Sherlock, for once in his life, obeys. He untangles their fingers and leaves Mycroft’s line of sight. 

There is a mess of chatter all around him. The same overly cheerful nurse tells him “Well done, sir. Great job!” The surgeon is talking about stitches, the anaesthesiologist is adjusting something by his head, and Mycroft has to block them all out in order to be able to hear what is being said across the room about the baby. He picks up, “Respiratory distress.” 

Mycroft can feel a heavy, painful weight on his chest.

“APGAR score... four.” 

Mycroft is shaking, hard enough that he thinks he might rattle the operating table. He breathes controlled breaths, unable to do anything else, but he is playing the worst-case scenario in his mind. 

And then he can hear Sherlock’s voice, clearly meant for him, “He’s breathing – Mycroft...” And then a wet gurgle, stretching into a sharp cry. Mycroft breathes. 

There is nothing from John. 

A nurse tells him, “He’s pinking up.” Another voice says, “He’ll be here in a moment, don’t you worry.” 

Sherlock comes back into Mycroft’s field of vision and says, looking impressed, “He’s small, as expected, between four and five pounds. He’s breathing well now. Moving.” 

John comes back with a brief, haunted look.

Mycroft asks John, well aware that he is repeating Sherlock’s words but desperate for information, “He is breathing well now?” 

“Yes, yeah, they’re saying so.” John sounds distant. He seems much more affected that Mycroft himself is, nearly unable to speak. 

It takes a few more moments, and then Mycroft hears, “Would you like to show him to his father?”

“Yes.” Sherlock appears by his side, moving extremely carefully while holding a white bundle in his arms and tilting him towards him. Mycroft can see a small face and deep-set eyes.

He cannot move his hands to take him, even though he wants to. He can only turn his face. Sherlock holds the baby out until Mycroft can trace his cheek against his head. 

_Hello, my child,_ Mycroft thinks. _Hello, my little one._

_My youngest._

 

 

 

 

 


	103. (John)

 

 

John never thought it would feel like this. 

Mycroft’s water broke by the door, in the same place where John - in that moment, he could remember it so well - had caught Mycroft when he was pregnant with Violet, fainting, so long ago. It seemed funny. 

John _laughed_ at it. 

Mycroft’s stony humiliation made him refrain from making any more jokes, but it felt pretty great to have it happen right in 221B. John had been worried, sure, but mostly convinced that it would be fine. Eight months is early, but not unusual. 

John wasn’t afraid until he saw the doctor’s face and heard her order Mycroft in for an immediate C-section. 

It’s only then that John thought they might lose this, still. 

That they might never have a baby at all. 

Sherlock was better in there than he was, John thinks. Mycroft pulled away when John tried to take his hand in the car. Mycroft completely ignored him throughout all of it, so John felt like he was utterly useless. 

Sherlock bonded to Mycroft. Sherlock spoke to him. Sherlock held Mycroft’s hand and Mycroft didn’t push him away.

John’s presence didn’t count for shit. 

Especially when the baby was born. John saw them work on it, first a doctor’s finger in the baby’s mouth trying to clear any mucus. Then they used the aspirator, without any results. 

And the thing is, John’s seen battle. He’s seen field operations, amputations, gunshots - gruesome things. But he’s never seen his own child being born and slowly realised that it’s not breathing. 

John couldn’t look at Mycroft lying there, cut open. John couldn’t look at Sherlock and see the exact moment when Sherlock would realise what was happening, when his heart would break. John could only hear Sherlock’s soft, pained gasp at seeing them start CPR and thought, _God, let him live._

And then there was a faint cry. 

 

-

 

Sherlock cried a little, unashamedly, as he held the baby to Mycroft’s face. 

But once they’re in the NICU, Sherlock seems to be on top of it. He asks the nurse detailed questions about the baby’s condition, he asks about the moments without oxygen, his weight and his expected progress - all in well-informed language. Then Sherlock runs right back to Mycroft to tell him everything he’s learned. 

John stays in the NICU, feeling like his legs are stuck to the spot. 

The baby’s in a heated incubator now. The neonatal consultant tells John that his breathing will need to be monitored closely throughout the night, and that he might need extra oxygen. She talks about a feeding tube, too. But John tunes her out and just looks at it - the baby. It’s skinny. None of the fat of full-term babies, this one has thin limbs and a small chest. His eyes are large in his face. His eyelids seem swollen. He has only the faintest wisps of hair. 

Sherlock goes back and forth from Mycroft’s room to the NICU all night. To bond, John assumes, and to inform him of every single detail. 

John stays. 

John sits on a chair and waits by the incubator. He listens to the hospital sounds. He can hear the constant beeping of the heart monitors. 

Beds being moved outside. 

Distant chatting. 

He tries not to see the other premature babies, some so painfully small they don’t seem as if they’ll ever have a chance at life. 

John remembers Violet’s birth, and the night they all spent in the hospital when Mycroft nearly had a miscarriage. He doesn’t remember it being like this at all though. John did care about Mycroft and his kid back then, but in some general way. He’d wanted it to be fine mainly for Sherlock’s sake. John had admired the hell out of Sherlock for even trying to bond and save Violet. To try the impossible. 

Well, he did.

And now this is where they ended up because of it. 

 

-

 

In the morning, a nurse brings Mycroft in a wheelchair to the NICU so he can see the baby. 

Mycroft is looking pale, with large dark circles under his eyes, but he reaches his hand through the incubator for the baby without hesitation and studies him intently. He carefully touches the baby, then interrogates the doctor on call about the baby’s health - whether his bilirubin levels are too high, and whether they should expect any further breathing difficulties.

Sherlock leans over the incubator and seems already besotted. He takes pictures to send to everyone they know. Sherlock traces the baby’s cheek, then looks up to smile at John. He seems so _happy_. 

John goes to get coffee. 

By noon, they go home. Supposedly to shower and rest a bit, but Violet is running around and Mrs. Hudson is eagerly waiting for news. 

Sherlock tells her, with obvious fondness, “The baby’s in the NICU for now, but he’ll be fine. Mycroft, too.” Sherlock turns to Violet. “You have a little brother now.” 

She agrees, with some seriousness, “Baby in the tummy.” And then, “Baby born, Father has a baby, Violet has a baby!” 

Sherlock grins. “Yes. You’ll get to meet him soon.” 

Sherlock actually showers, re-dresses, and gets ready to go again. 

But John says, “I’ll stay here, with Violet.” He knows that the nanny could just as well take her. Or Mrs. Hudson. When Sherlock frowns, John argues, “The baby’s going to be in hospital for a while, we should spread the visits, shouldn’t we? Take shifts.” 

Sherlock agrees only slowly. “…If you want to.” He hesitates for a moment, then leaves, obviously eager. 

John, still in last night’s hastily worn clothes, takes Violet upstairs. Together they sit in the living room. After a few minutes of Violet playing on the floor, she crawls into his lap. Violet’s curls brush against his nose. She smells like baby shampoo and something sugary. Violet tilts her head back and looks at him, then bursts into a wide smile.

John takes a pained breath. 

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. 

He holds Violet, hugs her maybe a tad too hard and too long, because she gets annoyed and wants to be let go. So John says, “How about we go for a walk?” 

John guides her through the park in a slow stroll, something to kill the time and distract him. 

He stays with Violet throughout the day.

John receives a video on his phone from Sherlock where he’s carefully feeding the baby from a small bottle. There’s a frown of concentration on Sherlock’s face as he tries to make him take the nipple. It’s accompanied by, “He drank approximately 5ml from the bottle, the consultant says that’s great so far, we’ll try again tonight. SH” 

John feeds Violet dinner, bathes her, reads her stories, and then puts her to bed. Mrs Hudson comes over again and offers to stay in the flat while Violet sleeps, so John has no reason at all not to go. 

He takes a cab to the hospital. 

John goes to Mycroft’s room first, ready to say some things, not sure what, really. Just… to be there. 

But Mycroft’s eyes are closed. His head is turned to the side. 

So John walks that long corridor again down to the NICU. He scans the wristband they gave him to be let inside. 

Sherlock is sitting in a rocking chair. His shirt is opened, his chest is bare, and he is holding the baby to his skin. Sherlock sees him, smiles brightly and whispers, “I’m _kangarooing,_ John!” 

Sherlock goes on about how skin-on-skin time is meant to be good for the baby’s sense of attachment, heart rate and development, but John tunes him out as he looks at the tiny body held to Sherlock’s chest. 

He’s _so_ small.

John asks, his voice oddly raw, “He’s okay then? He’s doing well?” 

“He has no serious breathing problems, he was suckling already, he just needs to gain some strength to…”

John takes a shivering breath and sits down next to Sherlock, his legs suddenly giving out. 

Sherlock looks at him with some confusion. “John?” 

John swallows the knot in his throat away. “I… yeah. I’m just…” 

It’s real. 

That’s his son.

 

 

 

 

 


	104. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock is fascinated by the fact that he only has to smell the baby to feel it overwhelm him with how _right_ it is - he still can’t do it without tears prickling behind his eyes. 

It feels so necessary. 

Even when the baby is in the incubator, Sherlock can’t control the urge to reach out and touch the baby’s chest to feel it softly rise and fall. To stroke a fingertip over his soft skin. Touch his long, thin legs, and the tiny toes on his wrinkled feet. Trace his small hands and feel the sharp nails clutch his one finger on instinct. Soothe him when he weakly cries.

Sherlock _needs_ to be here. 

Mycroft can’t do this right now, since he’s lying in bed in considerable pain. Sherlock goes to bond with him every few hours, and then comes right back here. For the both of them. 

But John says, tiredly, “Sherlock, come on, we’ll be back tomorrow.” As if he doesn’t know. He doesn’t _understand_. 

John can’t feel this the way he does - Sherlock does know that. John is not Mycroft’s alpha so he doesn’t feel all of this, but he should understand some of it. This is John’s child. _John’s_ baby. 

Eventually, Sherlock gives in and they do go home. 

Sherlock has been observing the way the staff touch the baby. He has kept track of the heart monitor, the feeding tube, and the baby’s respiration continually. They showed him how to change his nappy, and a nurse gave Sherlock strict instructions on how to feed the baby. It was nowhere near how Sherlock remembers it being with Violet, but the nurse assured him that the weak, instinctive sucking for a few minutes before the baby fell asleep was already major progress. 

Sherlock commits all this information to memory. 

All of the clothing and nappies they bought will still be too large, now. Sherlock takes his phone, and googles ‘premature baby clothing’. 

By the time they arrive in Baker Street, Sherlock realises that he hasn’t even spoken to John. 

Mrs. Hudson is in their living room, reading a romance novel. Sherlock gives her a smile, takes her hands and says, “He’s feeding now.” He tells her all he knows, while John goes to bed. 

Mrs. Hudson beams up at him and comments a few times during his story. Eventually, she orders him, “Now get some sleep, Sherlock!” 

Sherlock changes into his pyjamas. First he checks on Violet, who is sleeping in her own small bed in their bedroom. Sherlock pulls her blanket a little higher to make certain that she’s warm enough, and then gets into bed next to John. 

John has turned to his side of the bed already. He’s clearly worn out. Sherlock puts a hand on John’s shoulder anyway, gives him a kiss on the cheek, and says, “Good night, John.” 

 

-

 

Violet wakes them up at four in the morning by suddenly starting to cry loudly. ‘”Fah! Fah!!!” 

John curses, and Sherlock gets up and takes her. “You’re with us, Violet.” She’s wailing, sniffling, and gasping for air. Sherlock takes her to the bed to lie between them. She quiets down again a bit there, but not fully. It’s been stressful for her, Sherlock is aware. He pats her back. 

John tells Violet, “It’s still dark outside. We’re not done sleeping, Violet.” 

She does fall asleep again, but Sherlock’s awake now. So is John, judging by his long, frustrated sigh. 

Sherlock offers, “We can go to the hospital?” 

“What, now? It’s the middle of the night.” 

Sherlock looks at the clock. He already feels the need to bond, to see the baby, to check… 

John says, “No, Sherlock. Mycroft needs his sleep, too. That was a major surgery, he needs to recover. We’ll go in the morning.”

Sherlock glances at the clock again. It seems like an eternity. 

Eventually he does doze a bit more, but Violet wakes up again by seven and instantly claims to be hungry, and demands to go swimming, and to watch a video. Mrs. Hudson has allowed her to watch old episodes of something called The Magic Roundabout, and Violet seems to be obsessed. 

 

-

 

They are back at the hospital by eight. 

When they walk into the NICU, Mycroft is there. He is seated in one of the rocking chairs, holding the baby and trying to feed him from a small neonatal bottle. 

“Sherlock. John.” Mycroft seems exhausted, but he is also carefully holding the baby in the proper grip. The nurse clearly showed him, too. Or knowing Mycroft, he insisted on being shown. 

John steps closer to look at the baby. “He’s eating like that, then?” 

“We are trying, yes. The amounts are still too small and he tires easily, so the rest of his nutrition will come from the feeding tube for a few more days.” 

Sherlock looks at the baby and ties every minute detail into his mind. Already, he looks somehow different. He has the faintest trace of small downy hairs all over him. His eyes blink open. “Good morning.” 

John laughs. “You talking to this one, too?” 

Of course. Sherlock never understood people’s insistence on treating small children like objects. When Violet was small, he often thought she could understand not his words, but the thoughts behind them. That she would mirror his own mood, too. She still does. 

John asks Mycroft, “So, you haven’t said yet, what are you calling him?” 

Sherlock looks up. Yes, Mycroft _hasn’t_ said anything about a name. The baby’s hospital bracelet reads, “Baby boy Holmes, beta” but nothing more. 

Mycroft smiles - of course he does. Knowing Mycroft he wants to _announce_ it. Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

Mycroft glances at him and says, “I thought that perhaps you would have already deduced it.” 

No. With Violet, Sherlock knew because it was a process of elimination and a simple matter of thinking like Mycroft. But this one… Sherlock looks at John. Would he have used…? 

John shakes his head, “No, it’s…” He shares a look with Mycroft. “It’s not my name. Any of them.” John smiles. “So I know as much as you do.” 

Mycroft’s eyes seem to hold some pleasure, which is odd considering how exhausted he still looks. “You are unable to deduce it, then, Sherlock?” It sounds like a challenge. 

Sherlock thinks quickly. “Violet was easy enough - you’re inclined to a certain sentimentality, you always mentioned Grand-mere in a favourable light, and you thought of her as a special figure, therefore she would be worthy of naming your child after. Plus, Violet was a good enough name.” Sherlock agrees - it’s suited her really well. But would Mycroft do the same again? “Grand-mere’s husband was George, but you never knew him, and she disliked him.”

Mycroft nods. “By all accounts he was not the best of husbands, yes.” 

That’s an understatement. There even had been that rumour that Grand-mere killed him. Sherlock had always found the story fascinating. Sherlock tells John, aware he’s never said this, “Father’s brothers are James and Benjamin, mother’s father was Bob, or Robert.” 

He doesn’t mention Father. Mycroft would never name his child after him. But it seems similarly unlikely that he would choose to name him after any of their uncles. 

Mycroft offers, “You’re forgetting uncle Rudy.” 

“Wait, that’s the cross-dressing one?” John laughs. 

Sherlock feels a bit annoyed. Trust John to have remembered _that_. Uncle Rudy was always nice to him. Sherlock remembers him saying, “You can be an alpha whatever way you want to, Sherlock. If you want to wear some nice heels, you go ahead and do that. Life’s too short.” 

Granted, Rudy was drunk at the time, and Sherlock was ten and had no desire at all to wear heels, but he’d found it vaguely comforting anyway. 

But _nice_ isn’t Mycroft’s criteria, is it? “You don’t have a single male relative you admire enough.” Maybe a head of state? A royal? Someone else of note?

Sherlock is thinking through Winston Churchill, Charles Darwin, Isaac Newton, Ernest Shackleton - all possible but unlikely - when Mycroft shares a look with John and says, “Do I not?”

Sherlock thinks back to their relatives, but there truly isn’t anyone he can imagine Mycroft would put enough stock into to honour with a namesake. Unless he is thinking of those who were deceased long before they were ever born, but even among them Sherlock cannot see anyone who would have the necessary accomplishments Mycroft would require. 

John is smiling at Mycroft as if he thinks he has figured it out. Why would _John_ know? Sherlock frowns. 

Mycroft takes a breath, then says, “I was thinking of naming him ‘William.’”

Sherlock blinks. 

“With your permission, of course.” 

There’s a moment of silence. “You’d…” Sherlock swallows. “You’d name him after _me?_ ” 

Sherlock looks Mycroft over and tries to determine the logic. He hasn’t accomplished anything of note, certainly not in Mycroft’s eyes. 

“Yes, I would.” Mycroft seems sure. 

John tells Mycroft, “It’s perfect. I, yeah, I love it.” 

Sherlock looks at the baby in Mycroft’s arms. He’s fallen asleep. 

Mycroft puts his bottle on the side table, and Sherlock, careful not to disturb the feeding tube, takes him from Mycroft. The small weight of him still surprises him every time he picks him up. Sherlock carefully holds him, looks at him, and tries it out, “William.” 

It feels… warm. 

Sherlock focuses on placing him in the heated incubator. He makes certain the sensors are picking up his heartbeat and that the feeding tube cannot be tangled. Sherlock’s hands are almost obscenely large and clumsy compared to the baby’s tiny body. It centres him a bit. 

_William._

Sherlock looks back at Mycroft and faces him. “Yes.” He adds, “Thank you.”

Mycroft nods, and the wave of emotion Sherlock can feel between them is genuine. 

Sherlock has never meant it more. Not just for the baby’s name, but all of it. This. 

The baby breaks the moment by crying faintly, and Sherlock touches him to soothe him. _Don’t worry,_ he thinks. _I’ll be here when you cry._

Sherlock glances at Mycroft and John. 

_Always._

 

 

 

 

 


	105. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft discharges himself from the hospital. 

Walking, even just a few steps, is still an agonising affair. So is moving up out of the bed, going to the bathroom, or changing his clothes. Even reaching out to the bedside table to lift a cup of water gives him a sharp stab of pain, and the act of coughing or sneezing is entirely excruciating. 

The wound of the Caesarean itself is a neat, red line of stitches, covered by a large bandage. But his uterus is still shrinking, and he is bleeding heavily. He feels dizzy when he moves too quickly. Oddly weak as well. The horrific headache from the epidural has mostly worn off, but now he just feels a hollow whining in his head. 

Mycroft wants nothing more than to be in the quiet of his own home. 

He has a private nurse who will come by twice a day. Detailed instructions on wound care from the doctors. And he has done this before, after all. But that does not change the fact that this time, he is leaving his child in the hospital. 

Mycroft knows that the baby will be cared for very well in the NICU. No matter how dedicated a staff he would hire, there would still be a small chance of complications, and Mycroft would never forgive himself for taking his child away from medical care. 

But it feels as if he is wilfully abandoning William. 

Mycroft knows it is ridiculous. Sherlock will gladly spend every possible hour in the hospital. John will be there as well. Violet is cared for by Mrs. Hudson, the nanny will work extra hours, and he is not hurting anyone by going home and allowing himself the days of rest he badly needs. 

But it feels appalling that this should be his first act as a parent to his son. 

_Helpless_ , to be settled into his own bed, with the nurse telling him that she will be back in a few hours. She reminds him that there is water on his bedside table, and that he should call if he is worried about anything. 

Mycroft thought he missed the silence of his own home, and he did - the constant sounds and smells and activity of the hospital were wearing on him. He felt wholly uncomfortable there. But it is something else to be at home, in pain, entirely alone, with nothing to do but stare at the walls. 

Mycroft puts a hand on his stomach out of habit, and then retreats when he feels the sheer emptiness there. His belly is still swollen, but there is no child there anymore. 

_William._

As soon as he started to think about a name for his son, Mycroft realised that he already knew this child’s name. And Sherlock’s reaction had been more than touching - Mycroft does not regret his decision for a moment. 

He offered the second name to John as a nod to John’s involvement in this, but Mycroft is glad that he had the foresight to ask him in advance. John does not want to be tied to his past, and Mycroft can fully understand that. 

Mycroft looks towards his phone. It was thoughtfully put within his reach by the nurse, and it is filled with recent messages from Sherlock, all details about the baby, and some about Violet - Sherlock is informing him of everything he does. 

Mycroft has not received a single message from John.

He knew, of course. Mycroft knew exactly what this would be like. John did try to be there when he was in labour - Mycroft remembers John trying to take his hand and his refusal of it. Regardless, John never left his side.

But after that, it was over. 

Oh, John has been forthcoming enough. John is here for both of the children. He was obviously delighted by Sherlock’s name being given to William as well. 

But what they had between them is gone. 

In some way, Mycroft had thought that fact would only truly resound later on. That after the horror of childbirth and the exhaustion of a new baby and going back to work, it would be _months_ before he would feel the first flutter of sexual desire again. He had thought that any emotion would have ebbed away by then, and that by focusing on the baby, they would be able to keep their friendly connection. 

But now, a mere two days after giving birth, Mycroft is lying in his own bed and the memories of being slowly penetrated by John in this exact place consume him. John teasing his nipples. John laughing warmly into his ear. John coming inside of him, John holding an arm around his full stomach to feel William move. John...

And combined with the hollow pain inside of him and the fact of William’s absence, it feels as if he has lost everything in one fell swoop. That in one moment - one Mycroft did not even anticipate, one he was decidedly not ready for - his body betrayed him. In a blur of humiliation, a night completely out of his control, he lost…

Mycroft is suddenly gasping for breath. He is distantly aware that these are the postnatal hormones making him feel emotional, but he is unable to prevent the tears. He feels an _overwhelming_ wave of misery. Mycroft breathes through shuddering sobs that make his stomach incision ache intolerably. He cries as quietly as he can.

Afterwards, he slides down in the bed. 

He only wakes up when the nurse to comes to change his bandage in the evening. 

 

-

 

The next morning, Sherlock is the one to wake Mycroft as he _crawls into bed with him_. Sherlock is here with the objective to bond, but Mycroft still feels entirely taken aback. 

Sherlock is very mindful not to jostle the bed at least. And despite his reservations about the location, Mycroft _is_ glad to see him. Observing Sherlock’s obvious fascination with the baby and hearing his eagerness about William’s progress has been a joy. Sherlock seems content. And Sherlock is here first thing in the morning, honouring their bond. Mycroft appreciates it more than he could ever tell him. 

After that, it is a procession of visitors. 

The nurse, to help him wash and change the bandages. 

Then the nanny with Violet. Violet is a bit reluctant, but as soon as Mycroft allows her to sit next to him on the bed – he tells her she can’t sit on his lap because his stomach hurts - she eagerly tells him about her day. She talks about The Magic Roundabout and eating peaches, which for some reason she considers to be unique. And then she insists on going to play with her toys in her room, so the nanny takes her. 

Anthea comes by with a pile of files. She keeps the conversation strictly on work, and Mycroft is deeply grateful for it. It is what he needs right now, something to even out the torrents of emotion that seem to want to pull him under. 

Later that day, Sherlock Skypes Mycroft from the NICU to show him William eating. 

And that evening, Mycroft has his chauffeur take him to the hospital so he can see William for himself. He feeds him, and holds him. He tries to adjust to the idea of all the intricacies involved in caring for such a small infant. 

 

-

 

The next day, Mycroft returns to work. 

The presents stack up higher now than they ever did for Violet. Mycroft is not certain whether he simply did not keep it as much of a secret, or whether people are now less afraid of his possible reaction to a gift. There is a silver rattle, a cashmere baby blanket, several wooden toys, a hamper filled with products from Harrods, an infant cutlery set by Tiffany, a vintage music box, and a box of cigars from a Nicaraguan contact. There is also a set of Beatrix Potter plates from the royal family. And from the duchess, privately, a beautifully preserved first edition of _Winnie-the-Pooh_. 

Mycroft limits himself to two hours of work at a time. 

The pain gets more bearable every day, but he heals slowly enough for it to be frustrating. 

Mycroft is aware that he is getting much more rest now than he ever did with Violet when he was just out of hospital. Violet would scream for hours while he was attempting to recover from surgery on top of a broken bond, so it was absolutely worse back then. It must have been. But yet, Mycroft finds himself to be so very tired. He feels slow and heavy, in more ways than one. 

William, probably in part because of Sherlock’s endless patience in feeding him, is allowed to be off the feeding tube entirely. But it will be a few more days before he can come home. 

Mycroft knows that he should be grateful that William will have no lasting effects from his brief moments without oxygen. And he is aware that it could have been much, much worse.

But still it feels like a failure on his part.

If he would have rested more, could he have avoided this? Did he put his own pleasure before his child’s health?

Why did he not give William everything he possibly could?

 

-

 

The silence begins to feel unbearable, so Mycroft decides to have Violet home again at night. 

While William is in the hospital, there is no reason for Violet not to return home to sleep. Mycroft is aware this has been a huge upheaval for her, and he thinks that perhaps it will be a good idea to have her home by herself for another few days before she will have to compete for attention. It will make her feel more settled. 

In truth, he misses her. 

Mycroft is working in his library - he is trying to finish some files in preparation of spending the rest of the evening with Violet - when he hears the door open. There is Violet’s voice, “Father? I’m home, Violet home!” 

“In here!” Mycroft smiles as she peeks around the corner, then runs up to him. “Hello, my darling.” 

John appears in the doorway as well, and Mycroft’s smile fades somewhat. Of course John brought her, Sherlock is likely still at the hospital. 

Violet runs off. She knows where her toys are and appears to have missed them. She picks up her toy train and a loud whistle rings through the hall. 

John stand in the doorway, a bit awkwardly. “You’re feeling better then?” He nods at the work.

“There is always something to do.” Mycroft is aware that he sounds rather icy. And he knows that he must make more of an effort towards John. It would be a shame for their friendship to end as well, so Mycroft makes certain to appear more approachable as he continues, “It is good to get back to work. I find myself rather at a loss without it.” 

It works. John’s hesitance disappears, and he even smiles. “You workaholic, you.” 

Mycroft says, “Well, we all have our vices.” 

John’s eyes crinkle. “If that’s the worst you can do…” He grins, and suddenly it feels entirely too familiar. 

Mycroft does not allow himself to continue smiling. He cannot… he finds it difficult, to face John like this and to determine what they are to one another now. 

“I could stay a while, help with Violet?” 

Mycroft can hear the hopeful note in John’s voice. John _wants_ to stay, clearly. 

“Sherlock’s in the hospital still, he’ll be there ‘til they chuck him out, so it’s just me at home anyway.” 

There is no reason for him not to stay. John’s help could be useful in fact, because Mycroft cannot lift Violet yet. It is just that when Mycroft looks at John, he can remember kissing John right here in his library on more than one occasion, and then going upstairs with a certain warmth already playing between them. It _is_ a pleasant memory, but Mycroft is only too aware that they will not repeat that behaviour now. 

They need a new sense of boundaries. So Mycroft says, “Thank you, but I will manage.” 

John seems disappointed. “Sure, yeah. I’ll bring over her again tomorrow after dinner then, if it goes well?” 

“That would be acceptable.” 

There is a brief moment of silence. Mycroft stands up because he intends to walk John out, but John misinterprets his move forwards and leans in to kiss him. Mycroft instinctively turns his face, so John’s lips only barely brush his cheek. 

“...right.” John appears embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t…” He frowns.

Mycroft does not know what to say. “I will see you tomorrow, John.” 

“Sure.” John gives him one last look, and then lets himself out.

Mycroft goes to sit by Violet and asks, “Did you miss your train?” 

“Yes! My choo-choo and my bunny and my i’affe.” She takes the various toys and makes them all sit in a circle. Mycroft dutifully arranges them with her, and narrates conversations between the animals in silly voices, just to make her giggle. 

Sherlock Skypes again that evening. Mycroft carefully sits Violet on his knee, and they both look at William through the laptop screen. Violet is puzzled. She keeps on looking at the image and saying, “Baby? Little baby? She’lock baby?” 

Mycroft silently marvels at her enthusiasm. He knows that she may not remember this, but Mycroft himself does remember seeing Sherlock for the very first time. He was seven when there was a small, screaming baby put in his arms and he was told that he was a big brother. He had been just as baffled. But he grew to love him soon. 

Sherlock says, “This is your little brother, Violet! His name is William.” 

Mycroft remembers exactly those same words being said to him. _‘That’s your little brother, Mycroft. His name is William.’_

Mycroft looks at Sherlock, feeling a private fondness. Hopefully this will grow to be a relationship that Violet can treasure throughout her life. 

That evening, Mycroft takes extra care in putting Violet to bed and reading to her. He lingers by her door, even after she has fallen asleep. He loves her so dearly. He cherishes the sound of her sighs as she falls into deeper sleep. He studies the shape she makes in the small bed. She is finally still, her boundless energy and spirit quieted in sleep, even as stars from her bedside lamp dance across the wall. 

Mycroft loves Sherlock, without doubt. Only Sherlock would be so selfless right now, caring above and beyond. Mycroft loves William already and he does miss him, somehow. He wishes to care for him properly. And yes, he loves John. But they will manage that much between them as well.

Truly, he is so much richer than he ever thought he would be.

There is no need for him to feel so very alone.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry to have to do this again, but my beta had some family issues come up and we can't get the next chapters edited in time, so I am taking a two week break in posting and **chapter 106 will be posted on Saturday the 3rd of June.** My apologies!


	106. (John)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! :D

 

 

John is managing. 

He never imagined it would be such a hectic time. But then he missed nearly all of it with Violet, didn’t he? All John remembers from Violet’s first few weeks is Sherlock going a tad crazy over missing his bond and running out to see Mycroft. 

Now, it’s a different story. 

Sherlock spends most of his days in the NICU. Even though he doesn’t actually have to be there all the time, he’s so eager that John can’t tell him no. And apparently, neither can the NICU nurses, because half the time he is sleeping there as well. 

John goes to the hospital once a day for about half an hour. That’s enough for him really, especially because he’s now taking care of Violet at home. It’s shared with the nanny and Mrs. Hudson, sure, but Sherlock not being around also means that John’s doing the cooking and trying to keep the place somewhat clean all on his own. 

Mrs. Hudson’s happy to help, but she does get tired, too. The nights are especially hard, because Violet often refuses to go to sleep, and then when she’s down, she rarely actually sleeps through the whole night. It’s exhausting, really. Stressful. John’s glad he’s not working now, because he’s got no idea how they would have done it otherwise. 

And the baby’s not even home yet. 

Mycroft is already back to work of course. John didn’t expect anything else from him. It’s too important to stop, probably, but it does make John feel like the housewife, left behind to pick up the pieces. John joked about that before, but back then it seemed pretty nice. Like it would be relaxing, to be home all day. Only right now, it’s not the most gratifying of jobs. 

It doesn’t help much that Sherlock is focused on nothing other than William, either. It’s all he talks about. Feeding schedules, how much weight he’s gained, and the results of the latest blood work. If Sherlock does anything else at all in a day, it’s spend time with Violet, or going over to Mycroft’s to bond. And John knows that being jealous of any of that would make him a proper arse right now - Sherlock’s doing his absolute best for all of them and John can’t fault him for that. It’s just… 

Well, there’s nothing left for him. 

They barely talk. 

Which John wouldn’t mind that much if maybe Mycroft would be at all willing to be around him, but it’s like a switch has been flipped there, too. When Mycroft turned away from him when he was in labour, John thought that well - it’s just who he is. Mycroft’s not the type to want to be held at a time like that, right? Except Mycroft let Sherlock bond. Mycroft let _Sherlock_ take his hand. But again, no reason to be jealous, it’s different. John tried not to take it personally. But ever since then… Mycroft just doesn’t seem to want him anywhere near. 

Mycroft’s focused other things right now. John does get that. But when he was at Mycroft’s house, which is a place he’s come to love in the last few months, John could feel a bit of a spark there. Mycroft was joking, and there was some sense of friendship, so John had tried to kiss him. 

But Mycroft had turned away like he’d been burned. 

It’s too soon. Mycroft’s probably feeling like shit, he has just _given birth_. And John hates himself for thinking like that, but it’s not like he was proposing to _do_ anything. He just wanted a touch. A bit of affection. 

It’s not the sex he’s missing – John’s not in the mood for that right now, either. It’s everything else. John got used to lying in bed with Mycroft. The casual fun of it. The texting, the joking, he’d thought…

What did he think? Mycroft’s got god-knows-what on his mind right now - a baby in the NICU, recovering from a caesarean, and trying to work, of course he doesn’t want to be _kissed_ , right? 

John’s just an arse, that’s all. 

A selfish one. 

 

-

 

The second week passes in a similar blur of hospital visits and taking care of Violet. And then, eleven days after being born, William is cleared to come home. 

Sherlock’s all smiles as he tells John that Mycroft came to the hospital, and that together they had taken William to his house and gotten him settled there. 

John was home with Violet, of course - it’s still division of labour all over. Not that John particularly wanted to be there to see William come home, but it would have been nice if they had asked, anyway. 

No one did. 

Sherlock’s at Baker Street that night, the first night in at least three or four. So is Violet, sleeping in her small bed. But Sherlock keeps on turning in the bed, sighing, and checking his phone. Around three AM, John’s annoyed enough that he says, “Jesus, if you’re _that_ worried just go over.” 

Sherlock hesitates. “I believe I should. Mycroft was not present when the nurses taught me how to properly…” 

John tunes it out. “Yeah, just go. Let us sleep.” 

Sherlock leaves. 

John wakes up again when Violet attempts to sneak into his bed, at - he checks the clock and sighs - six twenty AM. “Come on, little monkey.” John holds the covers open for her. Sherlock’s space is empty anyway. John looks at Violet, for as much as he can see her in the dark. “It’s just you and me again, huh?” 

She nods. “Baby William. My brother. He’s home.” 

“Yeah. Well remembered.” 

John lets her play with his hair a bit - she likes to mess it up and stroke it down again. It’s not nearly as effective as when she does Sherlock’s, of course. Last month, Sherlock wore a pink bow in his hair for an entire afternoon because Violet put it there. 

She puts a hand on his cheek and pets it a bit. 

Violet’s never been very affectionate, but she seems to be more so now. John’s not sure whether it’s her age, or whether she’s just upset by all of the changes lately. No one else has had a lot of time for her, have they? John lets her be in bed with him for as long as she wants to. 

After they get up, he lets her eat Coco Pops in her pyjamas in front of the TV because fuck it, why not spoil her a little. John thinks those were the best bits of his childhood anyway, when he was allowed to do nothing for a bit. 

John gets her dressed in time for the nanny to pick her up and to take her to playgroup, and only then starts picking up the mess. He’s still in the middle of that, in his pyjamas himself and unshowered, when he can hear the door opening, and Mrs. Hudson’s happy cry, “Oh, just _look_ at him!”

John drops the fourth doll he’d been trying to put away while avoiding the stray Coco Pops on the carpet, and he goes to the hallway. Sherlock is there, carrying a baby carrier with - so wrapped up he can only see a sliver of his head - William. 

The first thing John says is, “We’re having him here already?”

John had assumed they’d leave him at Mycroft’s for a few days first. Isn’t it too soon to move him back and forth? 

Sherlock says, “For a few hours. Mycroft went to work.” 

Right then. Mrs. Hudson comes up to help with cleaning, because it’s a proper pig sty. John turns the heating up higher, then disinfects the kitchen counter and even wipes the sofa down a bit because god knows what’s in the flat. 

_Baby time._

 

-

 

John actually doesn’t get a moment alone with William in days. 

It’s always Sherlock, the nanny, or Mrs. Hudson running in and out. 

Or then it’s Molly, who comes over with a gift, and Sherlock holds William looking as proud as if he made him himself. 

Or Greg, who comes by to say hi and has a beer with John while William’s sleeping in his baby carrier and they both eye him, waiting for him to make a sound. Greg pats John’s shoulder and says, “You’re a better man than I am, dealing with that again.” John’s not really sure whether he means William, or Sherlock. It’s a bit of both, he guesses. 

The second time Molly comes by, she hugs him and says, “Oh John, Sherlock’s so happy!” 

John’s not all that sure why no one ever says how happy _he_ is. 

They have William over for a few hours every day, and at night Sherlock goes to Mycroft’s to help. Until Mycroft puts an end to that, and then they switch nights, either Violet with them, or William. 

The first night they have him in Baker Street, Sherlock is more awake than William is. He is practically jumping out of bed as soon as William makes a sound. John barely gets to touch William - and even then it’s under Sherlock’s constant supervision. 

It’s only on the third night that John’s the one waking up first. John gets up, and walks to the crib in the living room to see William crying, his small arms batting the blanket away. Sherlock is sleeping through it, for once. He’s probably exhausted. 

Plus, William’s cry isn’t that loud yet. John remembers the piercing, shrill octave Violet was able to get to once she was a month or two old. He hopes this one won’t be the same. 

John gets William out of his crib. 

It’s a mostly familiar feeling, a wriggling baby in his arms. He’s done this before. 

John holds him against his chest and bounces him a little. He’s still screaming, so John takes him to the kitchen and one-handedly makes one of the bottles. There’s a line of them standing ready with a measured amount of milk powder next to them – Sherlock’s work. John thought it was a bit obsessive when he watched Sherlock prepare them earlier, but he’s glad of it now. 

John manages to make a bottle, tests how hot it is by dripping some milk on his wrist, then sits on the sofa, puts a bib under William’s chin, and presses the teat to his mouth. William, after some false starts, takes it and starts to suckle. John watches him drink. 

He’s not entirely sure why Sherlock’s always so very fascinated by this. 

John’s never been that much for babies, really. He likes them better when they’re a bit older, when they talk and he can properly play with them. This is all taking care, isn’t it? Wiping and rocking and changing. John manages to get William to drink about half of the bottle, but then he complains some more. He seems bothered, moving about. 

John looks at the doorway - Sherlock’s still sleeping, and he’s not going to wake him up. He wants to take care of his own kid for once. 

He needs to find his own groove, doesn’t he? 

John walks around with William a bit, rocking him like he remembers doing with Violet. It helps a little, but he doesn’t settle. Then John thinks that it’s probably a dirty nappy, and he checks, but no. Cramps? John puts William down again and rubs his belly. Then he tries to see whether he needs another burp. 

And then, with a last look to the door, John gives in and takes his pyjama top off. Fine, he feels ridiculous, but no one will see, will they? He wraps a blanket around his shoulders, then takes William’s sleepsuit off so he’s just in a nappy, and holds him to his chest. John makes sure to fold the blanket around them both so William won’t be cold. And then he moves to lie back on the sofa, while holding a hand on William’s back.

It works pretty much immediately. William wiggles a bit against his skin, then quiets down. John lies there, holding his baby on his chest, and it feels… 

Well, odd. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this.

This little thing that’s holding onto him is his. _His_ kid. John’s here for him, to hold him and keep him safe. 

Sherlock stumbles out of the bedroom about an hour later, looking bleary-eyed and worried, and John shushes him, “He’s sleeping, he’s fine.” 

Sherlock looks at the way John’s holding William, and his eyes turn soft. He comes closer. 

John moves up a bit, and Sherlock sits on the sofa next to him, then settles there, facing William. 

And John can feel it hit him - God, they’re _parents_. 

They have _kids_.

 

 

 

 

 


	107. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock hasn’t been this tired in a long time. But having William is worth it. 

With Violet, Sherlock was allowed to help, but she already had a routine. Everything was already decided by Mycroft and the nanny by the time he came in. And in those first months, Sherlock felt that he had to prove to Mycroft that he was trustworthy enough to even hold Violet. That he wouldn’t harm her. He was afraid that Mycroft would decide to take her away, sooner or later. 

Now, it feels as if William belongs to Sherlock as well. 

Sherlock has been around for the NICU stay, and he knows how to feed William, how to hold him, and bathe him. He knows when his temperature feels off, what his breathing is like, how much he sleeps, what each cry sounds like. He doesn’t have to hesitate in taking him, or ask permission from anyone. William is _named after him_. Sherlock has legal parenting rights and he is officially as much of a parent now as Mycroft or John are. 

It is a truly heady feeling. He has a family. A true, lasting family. A bonded, two children, and a partner whom he will marry. Sherlock has never felt this sense of security. They will all be here and stay here. _He_ is allowed to be here, he is allowed to care, and no one can tell him not to do so. 

William will always be his child. Violet as well. Sherlock feels certain that Mycroft will not break their bond now, not when it has meant this much. And John will marry him. Sherlock will, for the rest of his life, have this.

And he can feel the relief flood him. 

Bonding with Mycroft, caring for William, Sherlock is _needed_ now. His expertise is needed, and he can provide that along with strength for them all. He can give Mycroft the bonding and focus on William and play with Violet and sleep next to John. 

Sherlock feels so whole. 

 

-

 

Now William is home, John has taken on part of the care of him. 

Sherlock is still a bit loath to give up on doing the bathing and feeding himself though, because it’s so important that it’s done correctly. 

He walks in on John feeding William, holding William’s head just a few degrees too low, and Sherlock immediately changes John’s grip, which makes John angry and say, “If you want to do it that badly, just do it yourself, yeah?”

Sherlock goes downstairs later and tells Mrs. Hudson about it. She says, “You have to give him a chance to be with the baby as well. He needs to bond in his own way.” 

So Sherlock tries to stay away a bit more, but half of the time John seems frazzled and glad that he’s back, especially if they have both Violet and William. 

It’s a difficult combination. Violet is used to being the sole focus, so she wants to talk and play and go out, but William has a nap and feeding schedule that must be upheld. Plus, it’s still quite cold outside, and William can’t be outside for any long period of time yet, while Violet doesn’t want to stay in. She throws multiple tantrums a day. It seems as though the more they tell her to be quiet, especially when William is asleep, the more she wishes to make noise. 

Sherlock has tried to explain it to her. He told her, ‘Small babies need more sleep than you do, to develop their brain.’ But she doesn’t seem to process it. Or even when Violet clearly tries to be good, it turns out to be too hard for her to stay quiet. 

Quite often, she does it purposefully. 

Violet was almost completely toilet trained before William came along, but now she asks for nappies again. 

Mycroft argues that it’s a developmental step back and that they should discourage it. John says they’ve changed enough nappies and that she’s capable of using the potty. But Sherlock is inclined to give in, for now. She wants to be just like the baby.

Sherlock plays into it and occasionally makes Violet a bottle of milk, too. He wraps her in a blanket and rocks her. Sometimes, that’s all she wants. And then other times it makes her so angry, she pushes the bottle out of his hand and screams, “No, Violet not a baby! Violet is a big girl!” 

She has full-on meltdowns several times a day. 

When they’re discussing what to do about them, Mycroft smiles wryly and says, “I imagine that this is a preview for what puberty will be like.” 

And Sherlock feels such a sense of foreboding that it physically pains him. He had not thought of that. 

This is Violet being an alpha. 

How will they deal with her first heat? The _aggression_ \- Sherlock can still feel an echo of it pump through his own body. It was one of the worst things he has ever experienced in his life. How will Violet live with it? 

He must look dismayed, because John laughs and says, “We have like, ten years to prepare for that, okay? We’ll be ready.” 

But Sherlock looks at Violet with new eyes. 

Especially when the next time she is wildly screaming, bright red, tears and snot dripping from her face as she shrieks, “No! No! No!” Sherlock sees Mycroft take her to the side and tell her, quietly, “Violet?” 

She turns her head away, angry and unwilling to listen to him. 

“Violet, together we are going to count to ten and take some breaths. One… two… three…” 

And Sherlock can remember Mycroft doing that exact same thing to him. 

He’d forgotten. Or deleted it, but seeing it brings back a wave of memory. Mycroft taught him about separating his thoughts. About seeking sensations and blanking them out, one by one. About the mind palace techniques as well. Sherlock can still hear Mycroft’s teenage voice, sounding haughty, ‘And if you have any worries or pain or sadness, just put it in a room in your mind. And when you’re there, you’re allowed to feel it, but when you’re not there, you won’t feel anything at all.’

He had always made it sound so easy. 

But it never was. 

Sherlock remembers screaming at him, feeling so out of control and so helpless. “You’re just an omega! You don’t know what it’s like!” 

Sherlock wants to take Violet from Mycroft’s arms now, hold her and tell her that they’ll rage together if that’s what it takes.

But it works. Violet sniffs, slowly relaxes, and by ‘ten,’ she is looking at Mycroft. Mycroft gives her a gentle touch, and then says, “Well done. Now you can play again.” And she nods, some tears still streaking her face, and slowly goes back to her building blocks. 

John later remarks, “Mycroft’s really good with her, isn’t he? I never would have thought to do that.” 

No, John would have just told her to behave. 

Sherlock doesn’t know what he would do. 

Taking care of William is easier. Sherlock carefully tracks his weight and feedings and nappies, and he writes it all down in a new notebook that passes between all of them. It starts to feel as if they have that routine down again. 

William, like Violet, is a light sleeper. He’s often awake between feedings, whining a little. But unlike Violet, he doesn’t outright cry too often. 

Sherlock is surprised to realise that it’s nearly the end of March. William is six weeks old, and it feels as if he was only just born. 

John gets more used to taking care of him. Often, they bathe him together now. John makes the bottles and hands them to Sherlock to feed him. Sherlock always feels a warm happiness when he does. It’s what he never knew he wanted to have, this. It’s wonderful. 

Sherlock tries to bond with John again, at night. He just sleepily noses John’s neck, and John groans and says, “Could I? God, it’s been so long, do you mind if I…” 

Sherlock says, “You can.” 

He feels a little awkward kissing John’s neck while John’s arm goes back and forth as he masturbates, but it’s not overly uncomfortable. Afterwards, John does not touch him, cleans up straight away, and then says with some embarrassment in his voice, “Thank you. I really, yeah, I really needed that.” 

And Sherlock feels good about it. Good, that he could provide that for John. 

Then William cries and Sherlock’s up with him for most of the night, but it doesn’t matter. Sherlock lies on the sofa and re-arranges his mind palace. He cleans out the rooms about John. And he tries to change some of the pain, doubt, and hurt, for steadier things. Good things. 

Things that remain.

 

 

 

 

 


	108. (Mycroft)

 

 

The bleak winter has changed into a dreary spring, and Mycroft is now raising two children. 

As expected, it is difficult. 

More so than he had foreseen, which is a fact that troubles Mycroft. He had planned this down to the last detail, after all. But looking back at the time when he was only imagining this, it seems as if he was a different person altogether. He was _naïve_. Blinded by Sherlock’s request, by how much he always longed for a larger family, and by the warmth he felt by being welcomed into Sherlock’s and John’s home. He allowed himself to be seduced by the thought that he is capable of providing this. 

Now he has two children, and each day constitutes a nearly endless procession of tasks. 

It was Mycroft’s wish that having a family would not influence his work-related responsibilities or capabilities, so he focuses as well as he can on work. Mycroft has always enjoyed the challenge of swaying people, of changing opinions, and letting his influence mean something. He still does, and he is very careful to put in the exact amount of hours and effort he did previously. But he finds himself looking forward to the end of the day in ways he has never before. 

Of course, at said end of the day Mycroft either picks up Violet, or William, or both. He spends his evening either making bottles and changing nappies on very little sleep, or telling stories about various speaking animals and trying to calm Violet’s hostility and anxiety. 

Mycroft worries about her. Intellectually, he knows that this is a developmental phase, but she reminds him so very much of Sherlock right now. She is like him, down to the tremble of her lower lip when she is about to cry, and the way she cannot stand sound, or pressure, or even the scratch of clothing against her skin at times. 

Mycroft is of course much more capable of handling tantrums now than he was when Sherlock was young, but he feels a much deeper sense of responsibility for Violet. With Sherlock, Mycroft had developed the techniques to deal with him because he felt that if only Sherlock would know how to control himself, he would be all right. With Violet, Mycroft is a lot more hesitant. He is responsible for her growing into a psychologically healthy adult, and often he finds himself at a loss as to how to accomplish that. 

More and more, Mycroft wonders whether he should have realised that he does not have the emotional capacity to be an understanding parent. He is damaged himself. He is cold and distant. He can attempt to teach Violet how to suppress her feelings, but he does not know how to teach her to express herself safely. 

And despite William growing well, despite Violet having many happy moments in-between her tantrums, despite Mycroft carrying several successful negotiations at work, he feels an overwhelming sense of failure.

He failed to carry William to term. 

He is failing to protect Violet from the beginnings of the same demons that have always haunted Sherlock. 

And he fails to feel love for William with the intensity that Sherlock does. The fact that Sherlock cares so much is a great gift, naturally, but Mycroft is uncomfortably aware that his own capacity to love does not measure up. Mycroft answers every cry, he gives every bit of attention required, but his mind often drifts when he takes care of William. 

At times, he is not even certain that he feels anything at all. 

In those moments, Mycroft thinks he would allow Sherlock to raise William even if only because he feels a certain appreciation for the practicality of the idea. 

As for Violet, he would deeply miss her, but perhaps it would be better if he did not raise her either. Perhaps he should, out of love for her, take a step back. 

Mycroft suppresses these thoughts and ties them into a dark corner of his mind, but yet they return often. When he changes William. When he takes him home and has him in the car next to him. Mycroft does care for him, but it is the absence of intensity that seems… unfitting. 

And with Violet, Mycroft fears that he cares too much. 

He should know better than to love her so very deeply. 

 

-

 

Mycroft walks into Baker Street only to be treated to a scene of utter domesticity, as is the standard these days. 

John sits in his chair with Violet on his lap. She is listening attentively as he reads her a story. 

Sherlock is on the sofa. He just finished feeding William, and he expertly puts the bib over his shoulder, holds William upright for a first burp, and then puts him on his shoulder and pats his back for the second burp, bib at the ready for the expected splash of regurgitated milk. 

Mycroft sees all of this in the moment it takes for them to even notice his presence. 

He observes the calm expression on John’s face. There are some bags under John’s eyes, but it seems to suit him remarkably well, this life. And Mycroft can see the love radiating off Sherlock, as could anyone. Mycroft wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock has been announcing to random strangers that he has a child. 

According to John, Sherlock has told Inspector Lestrade that he can only work cases around William’s schedule. 

Sherlock sees him and tilts his head in a quiet hello. Mycroft takes a seat next to Sherlock on the sofa, and Sherlock comfortably leans against his back and bites his neck, while holding William. John simply keeps on reading to Violet. Although Mycroft’s arrival did distract her, she continues to listen to John. 

Mycroft accepts the few moments of pure, egotistic connection, and closes his eyes as the feeling waves through him. Bonding is less intense now than when he was pregnant, but it still feels steady and warm. It is the best physical feeling Mycroft has experienced in some time. 

He tries to ignore his body as much as possible. Other than hiding his sagged and angrily marked stomach under a tight undershirt every day, Mycroft does not look at himself. Dieting has not been too difficult, at least. Food does not seem to taste as it should, nor does it seem necessary to eat often. So in comparison, even the small warmth of this is a rare treat. 

Sherlock moves away too soon, but Mycroft does not say anything. 

Sherlock rocks William, who has fallen asleep between their shared body heat. Sherlock’s eyes shine as he looks at him, and Mycroft says, aware there is little emotion in his voice, “It is good to see you so happy, Sherlock.” 

It is. Mycroft feels glad that Sherlock has found his meaning in this. It makes him feel better for Violet as well, that this is possible and that one day, she might experience this with her own children. 

“Aren’t you? _Happy?_ ” 

The question is unexpectedly sharp, and Mycroft feels startled by it. His brief sense of relaxation disappears, and Mycroft projects a self-assured look as he answers. “Of course.” 

John looks up from the book he is reading Violet. Or perhaps the story ended, Mycroft had not been listening to it. 

Sherlock eyes him. “You’re not, you’re miserable.” 

Mycroft answers, “Sherlock, I had an unexpected delivery, I now have a premature child who needs care and attention, a toddler whose routine is entirely disturbed, plus a demanding career. Anyone would consider this to be a stressful time.”

Sherlock looks at him attentively, but he does not argue further. 

Mycroft knows that the reason he had all those arguments so ready is because he himself has considered his lack of feeling. He had thought it to be more to do with the loss of hormones. It has been a difficult adjustment, from his prior state of emotionally fulfilled and almost manic pregnancy, to this sexless and taxing slog through each day. Of course he feels as if he has lost some joy in the process. 

Who would not. 

 

-

 

John tries to confront him next. 

After that highly uneasy moment during which Mycroft turned away from John’s kiss a week after William’s birth, John has been entirely respectful. Some of John’s texts have appeared again, often asking Mycroft how he is, whether John can help, or details about practical arrangements for either of the children. 

Mycroft has done his best to reply in kind. 

He thinks that they have mostly managed it well. 

That makes it even more startling that when Mycroft and John are coincidentally alone in the kitchen - Sherlock is changing William’s nappy in the bathroom and Violet is ‘helping’ - John unexpectedly puts a hand on his upper arm. Mycroft can feel a faint shock pass through him. 

John faces him and says, almost conspiratorially, “It’s hard, I know. When Violet wakes William up again and it’s the both of them screaming away...” John shakes his head. “I fantasise about throwing them both out of the window sometimes, to be honest.”

John looks at him expectantly, but Mycroft feels stuck in the moment. Struck by the heat of that single touch. The sight of John’s body leaning towards him in an unconscious gesture of comfort. The faint smile warring with concern in John’s eyes. 

Mycroft says, simply wanting to agree, “…they are a handful.” 

John leans back and takes his hand away. “If you want to talk, or anything…” John’s face pulls. He seems strangely emotional. “I’m here, yeah?” 

It is an honest offer, made by John’s genuine desire to help. Mycroft does not doubt it. 

But he needs to refuse. 

Perhaps John thinks that they have kept their distance for long enough, and that now they can go back to a closer friendship, but Mycroft needs to sway him from that idea. As much as he would want to, his reaction to John’s touch alone shows him that he still feels a certain fondness. 

It is a sad, ridiculous fantasy. They have accomplished what they set out to do. They managed to allow John to connect with his unborn child, while relieving the stress of the constant haze of pregnancy hormones for Mycroft as well. But Mycroft has no sexual desires at all at the moment. So then what would he want from John? Everything else is still here. John’s concern, John’s humour. 

It is Mycroft himself who has been keeping the distance between them, because he does not trust his own ability to deal with this rationally. 

To his credit, John seems to be equally conflicted. 

Mycroft says, coolly, “Thank you for your concern, but as I told Sherlock, I am quite well.” 

 

-

 

That night, Mycroft sits at his kitchen table and listens to William’s cries echo through his empty, grand house. 

Mycroft presses his hands on his hot forehead and over his stinging eyes, and allows himself a single minute to feel an aching sense of loneliness. 

He takes a few sobbing breaths, then pulls himself together. 

And goes on.

 

 

 

 

 


	109. (John)

 

 

John can remember being so fucking happy just a few months ago. 

Somehow, William being born changed all that. William is much loved, of course - Sherlock’s proper walking on clouds having him. And John, now it’s all settled down a bit more, is glad to have him around, too. They’ve gotten used to each other. 

William’s generally a good baby. He’s getting a bit more personality, his wisps of hair have gone blond and they stand up in a funny fluffy cowlick. 

Besides maybe the blonde, John doesn’t think William has the look of him, though. But then William doesn’t look like Violet did, either, or anything like Mycroft or Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson seems to change her mind about once a week who he looks like. But whenever anyone asks John, he always goes, “I’ve got no idea, seriously.” It’s not that William _doesn’t_ look like him, it’s just that he’s a baby, and there’s really not much of anyone’s influence there. 

It isn’t until William’s first grin - which might actually have been a poo face, but hey, Sherlock films it on his phone anyway - that John thinks that maybe there’s something of Harry in him. 

He doesn’t tell Mycroft, in part because ‘hey, our kid has the same smile as my alcoholic disaster of a sister, how about those genes’ probably won’t go over well, but also because they don’t talk all that much anymore. 

Mycroft’s different now. John gets why - all of their lives have been turned upside down. And he is willing to give Mycroft time and space to get used to it all again. But John’s gone past annoyed to starting to get a bit uneasy about it. Mycroft seems, well, _cold_. John’s used to some of that, but it’s more that he’s quiet, not joking or laughing. He’s still fabulous with Violet though, so it’s not like they seriously have to be worried here, it’s just… John’s seen Sherlock eye him, too. 

And on top of all of that, there’s still the wedding to plan. They haven’t done a thing for it since William got here, and now suddenly it’s just two months away.

Sherlock takes out a kind of mood board, hangs it up on the living room wall together with potential wedding themes, and they discuss that for a bit. Then John throws his chopsticks at the wall because he’s sleep deprived and high on Chinese food. Sherlock rises to the challenge, and then they’re both trying to make chopsticks more aerodynamic and throwing them at pictures of food in mason jars while trying to avoid waking the kids with their increasingly loud giggles. 

John hasn’t laughed that hard in ages, and Sherlock’s still smiling for long minutes after, too. 

John takes the chance and says, “You know, you’re a crazy bastard, but you’ll be _my_ crazy bastard once I’ve married you.” 

Sherlock says, deadpan, “I will be honoured to be your crazy bastard, John.” 

They laugh and mess about, and yeah, there’s no sex, but it’s a great night. 

At least he’s sure there, John thinks. _Damn right_ he’s marrying Sherlock. 

 

-

 

With Mycroft, John lets it drag on for a bit more, not sure what to do. 

John lies in bed at night and types on his phone, “Miss you. J” and then doesn’t send it. Where would Mycroft get the time to reply to that, right? Seriously. Mycroft’s probably lucky to be getting any sleep at all. 

John goes back to volunteering, more to get out of the house and away from endless bottles and nappies than anything else. He thinks about sending, “Stories about lost limbs still not any funnier the fifth time around. J” But then he thinks that that’s too much out of the blue, and that Mycroft will just be perplexed as to why he’s sending him something like that. 

John takes Violet to one of the children’s interactive afternoons in the Southbank Centre. She’s allowed to play with puppets, and John takes a pic of that and sends it to Mycroft. At least that’s safe. 

The next week, John takes her swimming and texts Mycroft, “Swimming lessons start from age three, should we look into that? J” 

Mycroft replies, “Yes, I believe she would enjoy being in the water with other children. MH” 

“Plus, it’s good that she learns how to swim, too. J”

There is no further reply. But then by the time John comes home, Mycroft has discussed it with Sherlock already, so it’s not like he’s not on top of it. It just feels a bit off. 

A couple of days later, John takes a funny picture of Sherlock’s face while changing a nappy, William lying on the changing table with poo basically to his chin, and Violet in the background pinching her nose shut. He sends it to Mycroft. 

And Mycroft doesn’t reply again. 

It all feels frustrating, because John’s not sure how much of it is him seeing problems where there aren’t any. Mycroft _is_ busy - no one can say that he’s not. He’s overworked, probably still sore, and dealing with sleepless nights. But John asks Sherlock, “You think Mycroft is a bit… I don’t know?” 

Sherlock says, “Perhaps you should go speak to him.” 

That startles John enough that he really thinks about it. “You think so? Cause he’s not really the type for, you know, emotional conversations.” 

Sherlock looks at him a bit oddly, as if he’s thick. “John, you need to support him.” 

“Of course. Of course, yeah. You’re right.” Wait, is Mycroft angry that John _hasn’t_ been there enough? Could that be it? Because John’s been trying to give him space all this time, but now he feels a bit stupid. Sherlock’s right - he should have been there. 

John waits for a day where it’s just William at Mycroft’s, leaves Sherlock to deal with putting Violet to sleep, and goes to Mycroft’s house feeling pretty good, actually. He just needs to put in more of an effort. Ask Mycroft how he is, what he can do, how he can be there for him. And then, the touching and sex, all of that’ll follow at one point, but it’s hardly the most important thing right now. John assumes Mycroft knows that - it’s all about the kids, right? But after some years with living with a Holmes, John thinks he should have been clearer, maybe. 

John takes the tube there, walks, and then texts, “I’m outside yours, can I come in? J” 

After a few minutes without an answer, John decides to head inside anyway. He has his own code now, so he doesn’t ring the doorbell - William might be sleeping - he just lets himself in and calls out, “Mycroft? It’s me.” 

John walks far enough down the hall that he can see the light coming from the library. The room is lit by fire and a single lamp, casting a cosy glow. Mycroft is sitting in one of his wingback chairs. 

He’s holding William, wrapped in a nice blanket. There are no files lying next to his chair, or books. Just a used bib and a half-empty bottle. Mycroft’s wearing a dressing gown. He looks exhausted, and as far as John can tell, he was just staring into space. He seems taken aback to see him. “John?”

John feels a bit as if he walked into something he wasn’t supposed to see. He has no idea why, since he has seen Mycroft naked and in every possible position more times than he can count. But this feels... private. 

“Is Violet all right?” Mycroft immediately seems concerned.

“She’s fine.” John hates that the only reason Mycroft seems to be able to think of for his visit is Violet being in trouble somehow. He should have been here, he should have slept in bed with Mycroft, he should have offered to take turns at night with William. And what he did was just come here for sex, like he did with Mara. God, no wonder Mycroft’s livid. John feels like a right idiot, only realising that _now_. He really did think he was doing the best thing, and that what Mycroft wanted was space. He seemed so sure about it, too. 

But now… yeah, okay. John coughs. “It’s…” He looks at the other chair. “Can I sit?” 

“Of course.” 

Mycroft turns his full attention on to him. John doesn’t know what to say exactly, so he just leads with, “I’m sorry.” 

Mycroft frowns. “Whatever for?” 

Right. Right, he’ll have to stay it then. “I haven’t been a decent…” _Partner? Lover?_ “Well, just, I haven’t been here. I get that.” John eyes him. “The thing is, I don’t know if you want me to leave you alone, or if I should be here. I don’t know. So, just, tell me? What you’d like from me?” 

Mycroft seems uncertain as to what he’s even talking about. “You are very involved with the childcare, John. I have no further... wish to impose upon you.”

“Then what did I do?” Seriously, the more John thinks about it the clearer it is. “What was it? Ever since William was born you’re not even looking me in the eye.” William makes a small sound, and John lowers his voice. “Look, obviously, I fucked up somewhere, and I want to… What can I do?” 

Mycroft leans back, shifts William in his arms, pats his back, and seems to consider. He says, slowly, “John, you have no further obligation to me.” He looks at William. “Only to our child, which you fulfil very well.” 

Yeah, John wasn’t talking about _obligation_. He takes a breath. “Is this... are you done seeing me?” 

Mycroft looks at him with some confusion. “Our arrangement was always temporary.” 

“...right. yeah.” 

Mycroft’s still looking as if he’s wondering what the hell John’s on about and says, “Sherlock agreed to this arrangement because of the circumstances. So did I. As soon as William was born, it ended. I believed that to be clear.” 

Well, yeah. But that’s all it was, then? Nothing more? John had thought… He tries, “It was good, though. Us. Wasn’t it?” 

Mycroft looks down at William. “It was a special time.” Mycroft says it as if right now isn’t a special time at all. As if it was some far away dream. He swallows. “I am grateful for it.” 

It sounds like a goodbye. “But we’re done,” John guesses. 

Mycroft nods. “Yes.” 

John gets up. He can feel his heart bouncing oddly. “Right.” _Well done, Watson. He dumped you six weeks ago and you were too thick to see it._

John has been dumped plenty of times in his life. This shouldn’t feel any different. He’s had this happen before, times where he thought it was all going well, and then out of nowhere it’s over. Really, he should have seen this coming.

But then why does it feel like it comes out of nowhere? 

Mycroft doesn’t walk him out, probably out of decency. John’s glad of it because it’s taking a bit to get his face in order right now. 

When he reaches the grand, well-secured door, John can’t help but remember all the times he’s come out of it at six in the morning with a giant grin on his face because he’s just had some of the best sex of his life. He went _nuts_ over Mycroft. All that fucking - it was intense, crazy, and he knew it was just temporary, of course he did. But still John can feel nothing but wanting that to have lasted forever. 

And maybe it’s not worth it to try for more but… 

It is. _It is._

John’s thrown a lot away in his life, but this, he won’t. It was more than just some _arrangement_ and Mycroft fucking knows it. He’s lying his arse off, _that’s_ what he’s doing. 

John turns around and goes back. 

Mycroft has moved, he is standing by the fire now with William in his arms, and John says, “Yeah, you know what? _No_.” 

Mycroft frowns, but John goes on, “No one else, that’s what I promised Sherlock. Just you, me, and him, and it was…” John laughs. “It was _great_ , it was _good_ , it _worked!_ ” 

Mycroft says, “That does not mean…”

“Yeah, it does.” And John’s going to fight for it. 

Mycroft takes a moment, then says, “You can renegotiate your arrangement with Sherlock. He might be willing to allow you another partner, if that is your concern.” 

“No.” Dammit, no. “I don’t want anyone else.” 

Mycroft nods stiffly. “I imagine that Sherlock will be quite relieved to hear that.”

“I don’t want anyone else but _you_. And he said…” 

Mycroft’s mouth becomes a thin line. “John, I hope to be clear: I will not involve myself anymore in this.” He looks down. William’s woken up from the sound of their voices and is starting to fuss. “Now, please excuse me, I must put William to bed before he fully wakes up.”

John already doesn’t have any dignity left, so what the hell, he says, “If you don’t want me, that’s fine. But just….” John looks at him. “I do. I want this.” John breathes. “I do.”

Right, time to go.

He turns around and leaves, actually feeling a bit shaky on his legs. 

Dammit. 

_Dammit_ , they were doing so well. They were amazing. For once in his life it worked, he had it all figured out, and now… 

John walks into a pub - the nearest one he can find, to go have a mix of whatever he can come up with and forget about all of it, just get some goddamned distance. 

He sits down and orders a beer, chases it with a shot of whisky, and he’s in the middle of that... when he stops. 

John finds his phone. 

Sherlock answers after a few rings, “John?” 

John has to raise his voice to be heard over the pub’s noise. “Yeah, I’m…” John swallows. He’s not even sure _what_ he is. “What are you up to?”

Sherlock, to his credit, doesn’t ask what’s wrong or what happened. He says, hesitantly, “I was telling Violet a story. The Hamlet one but with lions.” 

“The Lion King? Do we even have that as a book?” John motions the bartender that he wants to pay. 

“No, but I saw it once. I remembered it well enough.” 

John can hear Violet say, “Simba is going to be king!” 

John pays, then walks in the direction of the tube and keeps on talking to them until he loses the signal. 

He’s going home.

 

 

 

 

 


	110. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock paces the living room and calculates tube times – there’s a delay on the Bakerloo line – along with John’s average walking speed. 

John has never called him with his voice sounding like that. It’s _not good_. 

Sherlock texts Mycroft, “John upset. What happened? S” 

Mycroft doesn’t reply immediately, which annoys him. _Something_ must have happened. 

Mycroft is depressed - Sherlock has suspected for a while. Mycroft has always been closed off, but there is something hollow about him now. It’s in the fine lines around Mycroft’s eyes and in the way he looks at William, as if he is calculating how to complete tasks for William’s wellbeing, instead of feeling the need to care for him emotionally. 

And it’s even more noticeable in the way he tries to look past John.

So Sherlock thought that maybe sending John there… Obviously wrong answer. 

Sherlock glances at Violet. She’s up past her bedtime, but he doesn’t feel calm enough to put her to bed now. It’s better to let her fall asleep on the sofa. She’s idly moving her legs up and down. She seems near sleep. 

When Sherlock hears the lock of the outside door, and then the creaking of the steps, he wants to throw the door open, but he doesn’t. John might not want him to comment on it at all. But as soon as John walks in, none of those considerations seem to matter. He seems small tonight. 

John smiles, though. “Thanks for that, the phone.” 

Sherlock looks at him and tries to deduce what happened. 

John says, “Mycroft dumped me. Or well, more like he was convinced I’d gotten the idea ages ago.” He shrugs. “So yeah, it’s over. That’s… done.” 

Sherlock remembers the way John looked when Mara broke up with him - it took him a day to figure out why John suddenly seemed happier and more at ease. But this isn’t like that at all. John looks like he got hit in the chest. 

Sherlock tries, already feeling heavy, but knowing he has to say it, “You can find someone else.” 

“No.” John looks at him, and his eyes seem to burn right through his. “No, Sherlock. I won’t.” John breathes, and then says, “I’m with you, for the rest of my life, and I’m not going to. Not anymore.”

Sherlock can feel the sentiment infiltrate his mind. _The rest of my life._

John’s face pulls. “But I thought…”

Sherlock knows what he thought. That Mycroft was different. 

“I thought...” John smiles as if it’s something funny, as if he was being silly, but as if it hurts, too. “That we’d all grow old together, right? Raise the kids, the three of us. Love each other. Just, be a family.” 

Sherlock can feel the truth of that. “We will.” He can talk to Mycroft, maybe… 

“Yeah, try telling him that.” 

“I will.” It isn’t over, not at all. They will do what John said – Sherlock wants it, too. 

They will grow old together. 

 

-

 

The next day, John goes to his volunteering job, but he doesn’t return home at his usual time and then texts that he has a few errands to run - quite clearly attempting to avoid Mycroft when he comes to pick Violet up for the night. Sherlock doesn’t mind. 

After William’s birth, the wedding plans had been put on the back burner and Sherlock hasn’t had the time to play his wedding composition even once. Now, he straps William to his back, picks up his violin, finds his sheet music with the composition, and starts. 

It’s more than pleasant to play again. Sherlock had almost forgotten how joyful a piece it really is, full of laughter and warmth. There is some sorrow running through it, hard and deep, but it always returns to the quiet melody of delight. 

Sherlock loses himself in it. It is only after he has been playing for a while - William is awake, but quiet, soothed by the motion of Sherlock’s body – that he looks up to realise Mycroft is in the doorway. 

Judging by the touched look on his face, he has been there for some time. 

“Your wedding piece, I take it?” 

Sherlock never has had to explain his compositions to Mycroft. “Yes.” 

Mycroft offers, “It is very striking.” 

Sherlock eyes him. “Why did you say that to John?” Sherlock has been thinking about it. Why would someone who has been with John not want him anymore? Unless it is about sex, of course. Sherlock can understand that. But that can’t be everything. 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft looks away. “Please.” 

“John wants to, still.” It’s obvious. Sherlock didn’t think Mycroft could miss that. 

“I cannot provide John with what he seeks any longer.” Mycroft continues, sounding self-deprecating, “I imagine it was an anomaly that he ever thought to look for it in me.” 

Sherlock knows that feeling, better than Mycroft will ever know. He puts his violin aside, carefully takes William out off the baby wrap on his back, hands him to Mycroft, and says, convinced, “Then give him everything you do have. _Everything_ , to keep him.” 

John is worth it. He will always be worth it, no matter the cost. 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Sherlock, listen to yourself. _Why?_ Why would you want me to try and...” He nods at the violin. “You’re about to get married. He’ll be yours alone, he has said as much. Take your vows and honour them. There is no reason at all to involve me any longer.” 

Sherlock doesn’t need to think about why. “He loves you.” _And so do I, so stop looking so miserable._

Mycroft’s face immediately shuts down. “No, Sherlock, he enjoys sex, but you overestimate John’s emotional involvement, as ever.” He turns, clearly irritated. “And I am done speaking about this.” 

He will refuse to say any more on it. Sherlock can tell by the way Mycroft’s shoulders stiffen as he packs up Williams things. So he lets it be, for now. 

Sherlock picks up his violin again and allows himself to drift into the music one more time. Into John, into memories. Their family. Love. 

He wonders about composing a third strand to the melody. 

He’s been forgetting Mycroft’s. 

 

-

 

Two days later, Father comes by for a baby visit. Mycroft refuses to deal with him more than sending a car to pick him up and glowering from the edge of the room, so Sherlock gets to introduce William. 

He carefully settles William into Father’s arms, ignoring the trembling of his hands. 

Father slowly wells up while looking at William, which is another reason why Mycroft’s face pulls. He’s _radiating_ annoyance. 

They take Father on a silent, slow shuffling walk through Regent’s Park with Violet. She’s markedly faster than he is. She runs circles around them, babbles excitedly, and he answers her with slow, endless patience. At one point, Father takes Sherlock’s arm and says, “I’m so proud of you.” He looks at Mycroft and adds, “Of both of you. My boys.” 

Mycroft ignores him. Sherlock nods, but he’s not sure whether it truly means anything. 

As soon as Father is gone, Mycroft leaves with both kids, deftly avoiding John. 

The tension seems to echo in the empty living room long after.

 

 

 

 

 


	111. (Mycroft)

 

 

Seeing Father hold William was nerve-wracking and Mycroft very nearly grabbed him from Father’s uncertain grip – decorum be damned. 

He did not. Instead, Mycroft observed a grey, old, and shrunken man. A man who always meant well, who never wanted any conflict, but harmed them all because of it. _Love._

Mycroft, looking at their father, again swears that he will not repeat any mistakes of sentimentality. 

It only underscores his thoughts about Sherlock and John. Mycroft has been honoured by both Sherlock’s and John’s love for Violet and William. He has been more than fortunate to have their interest and care for his children. Sherlock’s willingness to bond amounts to a life debt. And John - Mycroft has been utterly surprised by John’s choices for a family more than once. 

But that does not mean that Mycroft himself is truly a part of it. 

Or if he was, that he should be any longer. 

Mycroft is deeply aware that he was never able to give Sherlock all the desperate affection, stability, and intensity Sherlock sought when he was younger, no matter how hard he tried. And that he cannot give John the sexual desire and never-ending affair he is looking for now. 

Mycroft is not even certain that he can provide his children with what they truly need to flourish. Does he do the right thing for Violet? Does his touch or his extra care for William make any difference? He rather suspects it does not. 

It is a sad thing to admit that deep down, he does not have that much capacity for love. He cannot feel what others seem to feel.

And as far as the end of his arrangement with John goes, Mycroft had assumed heartache of some sort to follow it. He had foreseen a longing, perhaps. A sadness. But in truth it is much quieter. If he did love John, there would be pain now, would there not? 

Instead, Mycroft feels as if he is looking at his life from far away. Through a mist, of sorts. 

A self-imposed distance. 

 

-

 

William is still on the bottom of the growth curve. He is light and small for his age, but his movements are eager, and he smiles constantly. He can cry perfectly well, too. 

He is, even more so than Violet was, a frequently held baby. Sherlock spoils him the worst in this - nearly every time Mycroft sees them together Sherlock is either holding William or wearing the sling across his chest. And every time he sees it, Mycroft is reminded of Sherlock as a baby and his endless crying. It is entirely logical that Sherlock, unconsciously or not, wants to hold his own child constantly. Logical that he wants to give William that which he himself lacked most. 

What Mycroft himself failed to do for him. 

Mycroft is careful to hold William as well, of course. He will not make his own child feel abandoned. Mycroft takes exact and perfect care to do everything necessary, but it only magnifies the differences between him and Sherlock when William cries and cries and is not comforted by him at all. 

Mycroft focuses on work, as he always has. He works some late evenings, but then it backfires as Violet’s entire evening schedule is changed, and she refuses to go to sleep, instead whines and cries for hours. 

Mycroft often goes between her room, then his own where William sleeps in a cradle, and then to the kitchen for a bottle, and back to the beginning of the circle. 

Sometimes, he takes both of them on to his lap and simply sits with them until they sleep. Violet is getting too big for it, but it calms her. 

It does not ease Mycroft’s guilt. Having two children, having carried them inside of him and wanted them so deeply, and now feeling so little is reproachable. _He_ is. 

Mycroft tries to avoid John, and when he has no choice but to see him, he keeps their conversations on the children. 

At times, Mycroft can see John watch him with pain in his eyes, and his resolve wavers. He _does_ entertain the notion that he could offer something to John again. But then he thinks about what their reality is. There is no real way that they could possibly be involved like that again. 

It simply cannot be. 

 

-

 

William has never been truly ill after coming out of the hospital. He has experienced cramps, reflux, and some nappy rash, but nothing unusual or severe. 

Until the fever. 

Sherlock had noticed it earlier in the day. He wrote in the notebook they always pass around with each child, ‘temperature 37.5, fussy at 7.10PM’. Mycroft had noted it, but not truly worried. 

Then William refused his bottle, crying. Mycroft took his temperature, feeling concerned that Sherlock was right and that he was indeed ill. It was 38.2. Mycroft gave him some Calpol, noted the time, and tried to soothe William to sleep. 

It’s two in the morning when he wakes to hear William’s low crying. As Mycroft lifts him out of the cradle, he notices the heat radiating from William’s tiny body. He seems to glow in his arms.

Mycroft quickly opens the press studs of William’s sleepsuit and undresses him, feeling a spike of worry. Fever in an infant can be dangerous. He takes William’s temperature quickly, and then stills in panic. _40.1_

Mycroft - without any thought as to why he should not, without a single hesitation - calls Sherlock. 

Sherlock answers with a sleepy “Hm?” 

Mycroft says, “William has a fever of 40.1. I have given him a second dose of Calpol and I have undressed him. Ask John’s opinion on whether I need to take him to the hospital.” 

Sherlock, as Mycroft had thought, immediately seems to wake, repeats his question to John and hands him the phone. John says, “Give it some time for the Calpol to work, and try to make him drink if he’ll take it. I’m coming.” 

He hands the line back to Sherlock, giving Mycroft no time to object. Not that he _would_ object, not now.

Sherlock stays behind, as Violet is sleeping and Mrs. Hudson is over at her lovers’. Mycroft does not end the call. He talks with Sherlock about the most common reasons for fever in an infant and takes William to the bathroom to look him over in the better light and check for possible other symptoms. Sherlock is still on the line when Mycroft takes William’s temperature again. It has gone down to 39.7. 

About ten minutes later, John lets himself in. Mycroft can hear him run up the stairs to the bathroom, and then the door opens. 

John immediately takes William and checks his muscle tone, then looks for a rash - there is none, Mycroft already checked - speaking loudly enough for Sherlock to hear him through the phone line. He is acting with the complete confidence of a physician, and Mycroft has rarely been so relieved to see him.

It is only when John has declared William’s temperature lowered enough not to be overly worried, that Mycroft notices how badly his own hands are shaking. He can feel a low, spinning sensation in his stomach. 

John tells Sherlock, “I’ll text you in a bit, okay?” and then ends the call and orders him, “Go sit down. I’ll bring him.” 

Mycroft goes to the bedroom, to William’s cradle, and then sits on the edge of the bed. John follows him in. John does not seem to think this odd, but then he has been here countless times as well, has he not? John puts William in Mycroft’s arms and says, “He’s fine. Look at him. He is. We’re watching him, okay? He’s fine.”

Mycroft feels the warm, small weight of his child, and somehow this moment seems so shrill and real in comparison to all others these past months. He feels so unworthy to hold William. How did he not realise his fever was this severe? How did he not see it, or predict it? If he wouldn’t have heard William cry, if he wouldn’t have woken and checked... To Mycroft’s annoyance, his breath stutters. 

John sits next to him on the bed and takes William from him again, which is both what Mycroft wants - he’ll be safer with John - and yet he cannot suppress the sheer pain at William being taken away from him, too. What if he would lose him? William, his intensely wanted child, what if... 

John leans over and pulls Mycroft close. The feeling of John’s arms pulling him in is enough for Mycroft to feel a throb of pain deep inside of him. He leans his forehead against John’s shoulder. 

John holds on hard, saying, “It’s fine, it’s fine. He’s okay, you’re okay…” It’s a long stream of nonsense that Mycroft barely hears. He focuses on details. The fabric of John’s shirt against his cheek. The scent of John. The wiggle as William moves in John’s arms. 

After less than a minute, Mycroft leans back, and John lets him. 

“...I apologise.” Mycroft does not know what else to say. 

John puts a hand to Mycroft’s back, rubs it back and forth, _warm, so warm_ , and says, “I’ll take his temperature again, all right?” 

He does. It lowers, then rises again. 

It is an endless night that should feel like any parents greatest fear, but John stays throughout. 

It is around five AM when Mycroft is sitting on the bed, propped up by pillows, typing some orders on his phone while John sits in the rocking chair he pulled into the room, idly rocking a sleeping William. William makes a soft sound, and they both look up. 

It’s nothing. John sits back again, and Mycroft gets back to his phone. 

Sherlock has been up for hours, too, texting them. Mycroft texts him, “William is asleep, no further problems. M” 

Mycroft glances back at William to check for himself, but meets John’s gaze instead. John tucks William’s blanket closer in reply and briefly smiles at him. Mycroft feels a flicker of warmth between them. He allows it, for now. 

Mycroft goes back to requesting security reports on the latest developments in Sudan when John says, slowly, as if he is considering it, “You know, I fell for you.” 

Mycroft looks up, certain he has misheard. “Excuse me?” 

John smiles a sad smile. “You heard.”

Mycroft schools his face to be as non-revealing as possible. 

“Just, this...” John looks at William in his arms, then around the room. “You and me and Sherlock, I...” John meets his eyes. “I _loved_ it. Us. I still do.” He swallows, then says, “I love you.” 

Mycroft immediately thinks through various options - John is simply expressing a caring sentiment. John is being generous, trying to _cheer him up_. John is attaching meaning where there should be none. John is saying what he thinks Mycroft most wants to hear. John believes that expressing those particular words will change something. John is using Mycroft’s love to his advantage, John… 

John looks away. 

They don’t speak any more. 

 

-

 

The nanny comes to relieve them. John agrees to stay with William for a few more hours, and Mycroft goes to work. 

Both John and Sherlock text him liberally throughout the day, describing every dose of medication William receives and every check of his temperature. Mycroft can slowly feel his fear abate somewhat. 

John has not sent a single thing that refers to their previous conversation, and Mycroft suspects that he will not.

But by the afternoon, Mycroft considers replying. 

He does not know what he will say until his fingers seem to type it by themselves, and Mycroft sends it before he can regret it. 

“I care deeply for you as well, John. M”

 

 

 

 

 


	112. (John)

 

 

John is out in the park with Violet. It’s raining, and Violet is enjoying herself by jumping into puddles on the muddy path. He knows they’ll both end up soaked, but John both doesn’t want to deal with the predictable tantrum if he pulls her away now, as well as doesn’t see the point. She’ll be wet and dirty either way - better to let her have fun. 

Especially since William’s sick. Sherlock is fussing over him right now, and the last thing they need is Violet keeping William awake. 

John’s watching the raindrops hit the puddles and the breeze ruffle some trees when he feels his phone vibrate. He glances at Violet – she’s splashing her hands in a puddle, with black streaks of mud all the way to her cheeks – and takes his phone. 

_“I care deeply for you as well, John. M”_

John reads it again, then smiles. Thank god. He _knew_ that he wasn’t wrong to push. It’s been one of the best relationships of his life, and he’s not letting it go. 

John sends, “Then be with me. Whichever way you want, we’ll make it work. J” 

He doesn’t mind how exactly, as long as they can have _something_ again. John has missed him. And tonight, seeing Mycroft almost fall apart, broke him, too. That’s why John told Mycroft that he loves him, fell for him, all of it. Because sitting in Mycroft’s bedroom at five in the morning watching their sick, feverish baby... There was nothing left to lose. 

John glances at Violet and asks her, “How about we go look at the ducks?” 

“Yes!” She eagerly leads the way. John steers her back to the entrance of the park, with occasional stops for pointing out ducks and various other wet waterfowl. Most are cleverer than humans and are currently hiding from the rain under tree branches. 

Violet says, “Look, John, a heron!” 

John looks at where she’s pointing. He can see the faintest outline of a long bird. “Hm, yeah, could be?” 

Violet says, completely convinced and mildly angry, “It is! It’s a heron!” 

John grins. He’s pretty sure most kids her age would stick with ‘birdie’. 

He leads her home. 

The rain eases up a bit, and John’s in a good enough mood that when they pass a flower stall, he buys some small blue flowers on a whim. John has never brought flowers home, but fuck it, none of them have slept, and Sherlock has been dealing with a sick baby all day - he can use a little something, right? No matter how silly he’ll think it is. 

When they walk in, John hands Violet the flowers and says, “Give them to Sherlock for me.” 

She walks over to where Sherlock is sitting by the kitchen table, writing a list of William’s medications into his notebook. Violet unceremoniously dumps the flowers on the table in front of Sherlock. Then starts stripping her jacket off. 

Sherlock looks at the flowers, and then back at John. John shrugs. “Present.” He goes to run Violet a bath. 

Sherlock wanders into the bathroom a few minutes later and stares at him. “You _bought me flowers_.” 

“I did, yeah.” John smiles. “That’s what people do, isn’t it? Bring their fiancé flowers.” 

Sherlock’s frown turns into a surprised smile. 

John grins. _Did that one right, too._

 

-

 

John’s a bit nervous as he sees the clock change to seven. 

Sherlock deduces, “Mycroft?”

John takes his phone, opens Mycroft’s message, and gives it to Sherlock to read. It’s best to be clear - John has learned that much. He’ll be honest with both of them and try to fix this the best he can. 

Sherlock reads Mycroft’s message, then says, entirely seriously, “John, he might not want to have sex again.” 

John laughs. “Thought of that, actually.” Trust Sherlock to point that one out. 

“You want to have a relationship regardless of that fact?” Sherlock asks it calmly, but John can feel the danger there - _Jesus, what are you saying, don’t make him feel bad_ \- until he sees Sherlock’s face. He’s looking at him with a kind of wonder. 

John reaches out, tangles his fingers with Sherlock’s, and touches his ring. At times it still feels weird to see it there. “I’m marrying _you_.” 

Sherlock gives him a small, private smile. 

“But he’s...”

“Family.” 

John doesn’t know why Sherlock can make that sound so easy. “Yeah.” 

Mycroft chooses that moment to walk up the stairs. Sherlock gets up, and instead of stopping Mycroft by the door as John thought he might do, he gives him a look, takes Violet, and goes to the bedroom. 

Mycroft seems so worn, lately. It’s been so much. Maybe this isn’t a good idea right now, maybe they need to let it rest - John would believe that, if he didn’t see the small hesitation in Mycroft’s eyes. He’s unsure, too. 

John has no idea what’s showing on his own face, but he says, “I meant it. Everything I said.” John glances at the carefully closed bedroom door, aware that Sherlock can probably hear at least some of this. 

Mycroft seem doubtful. “John... I am not certain I can provide you with what you wish.” It sounds painfully honest. 

Sex, again - seriously? “What, does _everyone_ think all I want to do is jump you?” 

Mycroft eyes him with some clear doubt.

John bursts out into a laugh. “Yeah, _all right,_ point taken.” 

Mycroft, surprisingly, briefly smiles at that. “You always have had a rather one-track mind, John.” 

John grins. “Fine. I’m not gonna lie, I’d _want_ to, but…” John looks at Mycroft and hopes that Mycroft knows he’s serious. “I don’t _need_ to, if you’re not up for it.” John says, feeling a weird sense of déjà-vu, “Even if you never are.” 

Mycroft focuses on that. “Then what is it you seek from me?” 

“Just…” John shrugs. “All the rest.” 

Mycroft eyes him, and John is all too aware that he asked Sherlock this very question a couple of years ago. He didn’t have a clue then, either. The answer’s much easier now, though. _Be with me._ “Text me, stupid stuff. Come to the park on Sundays. Stay up all night with the kids with me when they’re sick. Let me sleep over sometimes. Talk to me.” _God, please, talk to me._

Mycroft waits for the rest, and when it doesn’t come, he nods, still uncertain. 

“And…” John takes a step closer. He looks up into Mycroft’s eyes, reaches out a hand, and touches Mycroft’s cheek, which makes him breathe out a slow, shivery breath. “Kiss me?” 

John leans in carefully. He is expecting Mycroft to pull back any second, but he doesn’t. John brushes his lips over Mycroft’s in a whisper of a kiss, and gradually, Mycroft’s lips relax. John doesn’t want to push, but this feels amazing. They kiss, hesitate, then kiss again. They breathe each other in. 

It’s like coming home. 

After a while, the door opens, and they break apart. 

Violet runs up to them and hits both their knees with a hug. “Father! I was in the park and I was _all wet_ and ducks and I saw a heron!”

John smiles. 

Mycroft leans down and lifts her. “Hello, my darling. You had a bath as well, I see.” 

Violet puts her finger right on Mycroft’s mouth. “You and John had a kiss!”

 _Oh, shit._ John shares a look with Mycroft. Violet never actually realised before that that’s what it was when she’s seen them kiss. 

After a moment, Mycroft says, uncomfortably, “...That’s correct.”

Sherlock comes up behind them and tells her, “Kissing is what you do when you like someone.” He grins. “Or at least, that’s what I’m told - don’t believe them. Only kiss if you want to. Otherwise, don’t bother.” 

Mycroft glances at Sherlock, obviously a bit uncertain on what Sherlock’s making of this. Then he says, “A bit early for that, don’t you think, Sherlock?” 

It’s with some embarrassment - John can see it in Mycroft’s face. But Mycroft also seems glad that _that’s_ what Sherlock said to seeing them like this. John feels it, too. It feels so... normal, for Sherlock to walk in here. He should feel caught out, or annoyed to be stopped, but John’s neither. And he’s pretty sure Mycroft doesn’t feel like that, either. 

John’s lips are tingling from that kiss. Mycroft’s looking a bit flushed. And god, John can’t stop smiling. 

Sherlock shrugs. “Consent is a concept even young children can understand.” 

Mycroft looks at Violet, who is now trying to grab his tie and rearrange it, and says, “I imagine so, yes.” He puts her down. 

Sherlock leads Violet to her pile of dolls. “You can pick one to take home, but just the one, because _Mycroft hates plastic_.” 

John looks at Mycroft and meets his gaze. Mycroft’s eyes soften. He still seems a bit stunned, too. 

 

-

 

Mycroft takes Violet home, and as soon as he’s gone, Sherlock turns to him and says, “Well done.”

“ _Well done?_ ” John laughs and sinks down into the sofa. “’Well done’ for snogging your brother?” 

“Hm. He liked it.”

John looks at him. “You could tell?” 

“Yes, he had an elevated heart rate and a flush, both are reliable indicators of arousal.” Sherlock sounds pretty upbeat. “You might get sex still.” 

John lies back further. “Oh god, don’t remind me.” It’s been _ages_. Not that he’d be up for it right now though. He’s beat. No sleep and William screaming all night on top of all the emotional stuff today... All John wants is a nap. But that kiss was good. Really, really good. John smiles and lets his thoughts wander. 

He’s well on his way to falling asleep, when... 

“Whaaaa!!” 

William. John sighs. “My turn?” 

Sherlock is leaning back into his chair, too. He looks exhausted. 

John gets up. “Right, yeah. My turn.”

 

 

 

 

 


	113. (Sherlock)

 

 

John reconciled with Mycroft. 

Sherlock watched them kissing from the bedroom door and he could, oddly, feel his own heart jump. 

It was so very clear they both longed for it. The overly careful way John was leaning in and the hesitation in Mycroft only seemed to highlight their desire to touch. Sherlock has never watched people kiss like that. So slowly, as if there was nothing else in that moment. 

Afterwards, a sad tension suddenly lifted. Sherlock didn’t realise that it had been there for the past months, but now that it is gone, it feels instantly better. And it’s _right_. 

_They_ are right, together. 

The way John and Mycroft look at each other, with a slowly settling sense of happiness, makes Sherlock feel it, too. 

William’s temperature has lowered. They never did determine what caused his fever. Sherlock prefers to supervise him still regardless, so when he’s alone watching William later that night, he composes in his mind. He quietly hums the notes as he rocks William to sleep. 

Mycroft’s theme is settling in there. It’s much quieter than John’s, a slowly growing repetition of notes that will build to tangle with them both and support the melody. 

 

-

 

Mycroft comes over early the next day while John is still out, and Sherlock is by himself with both Violet and William. He has clearly timed his arrival on purpose. 

Mycroft looks as if he hasn’t slept at all. 

He sits down with a serious expression and tells him quietly, “Concerning John... I imagine we need to have a discussion.”

Sherlock can see the uncertainty in Mycroft. He is noticeably more stilted now than he was yesterday. Sherlock liked him better when he was just kissed by John. He liked him better pregnant, too. He was so much more at ease. Maybe he’ll go back to that once he’s sleeping with John again - Sherlock certainly hopes so.

“I will adhere to any rules you wish to propose.” 

“Rules?” 

“Yes, if John and I are to continue this, then surely we need some sort of... timeframe, or limitations…” Mycroft doesn’t seem to know exactly himself, but he looks at him. “And they are yours to determine, naturally.” 

Sherlock shrugs. “I can take Violet and William together once or twice a week?” He had already considered offering that. It would balance out the nights Mycroft has them both. “John can sleep at yours then.” 

Mycroft blinks. “That’s… very generous of you. But I was thinking more in terms of the relationship between John and myself.” 

Oh. “You can have sex again.” Obviously. Sherlock is surprised Mycroft is asking, he had assumed that was implied. John will always want sex. Mycroft knows that as well as he does. 

Mycroft looks away. He is embarrassed, although Sherlock can’t see why, considering they were having sex several times a night last time. 

“I’m not certain that will occur.” 

“Why?” Sherlock is curious. Mycroft does feel sexual attraction to John, he’s certain. 

Mycroft’s mouth is a thin line. “It is hardly the same now.” 

Sherlock can’t see why, really, but he nods. It’s the difference between feeling a heat and not feeling one, he imagines. If he enjoyed his heats, he might be similarly inclined to only want sex then. 

But he can help with that, can’t he? As an answer, Sherlock sits next to Mycroft and does his best to bond to him. Maybe some of the hormones will spill over. At least one of them has some use for them.

It seems to work at least partially, because by the time he’s done, Mycroft’s neck is an angry red, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes are shining, and he looks better than he has in months. 

Sherlock wills down his own body’s response and nods at seeing it. 

_You’re welcome._

 

-

 

Mycroft leaves with Violet and William before John gets home, so Sherlock is alone for a while. 

He sets up a basic experiment on the kitchen table. He only rarely has time to do these anymore, only when neither of the kids are here in the evening and they don’t have a case on. But this one has been on his mind for a while – he wants to test the degradation of tobacco ash under various weather conditions. 

John comes home only after seven, but it’s with a pleased expression. He’s gone shopping. Sherlock looks at the bag and deduces, “Shoes.” From an expensive brand, most likely recommended by Mycroft. 

John puts them on the table, opens the bag and takes them out. They’re well made, black, an understated and classic model. They are for the wedding, clearly. John turns them around and shows him the soles. “Apparently, these are great for dancing.” He grins. “Figured I could use all the help I can get.”

“You are planning to dance.” Sherlock can feel himself smile. John did say so. Months ago, John said to teach him again, but Sherlock had assumed that he’d forgotten.

“At our wedding? Hell yeah.” John smiles at him. “Need to take my brand new husband for a twirl, don’t I?” 

The fact that John is already thinking of him as _his husband_ seems surreal still - Sherlock can’t hear that word without feeling a strange thrill.

“You are gonna have to teach me again though.” John looks at him expectantly. 

Sherlock glances at his experiment. It’s not that time sensitive. He gets up. 

John laughs. “It doesn’t need to be right this second, we have time enough still. And I haven’t even had dinner.”

He’s right. Sherlock hasn’t prepared any music yet, or thought about how to teach John to dance again. He did teach him last time, of course. They danced to the saddest music Sherlock could find, awkwardly bent around each other, hardly touching and still too close at the same time. The memory hurts. 

John must see some of it on his face, because he says, suddenly a lot gentler, “Hey, only if you want to, right?” 

“Of course I do.” Sherlock smiles at him. He has always wanted to dance with John. The difference is that the last time he did this, he was teaching John to dance with someone else. Now, it will be them. Together. 

John says, “Want me to order something to eat? And we can give it a try while we wait?” 

Yes. “Mexican.” Sherlock has a favourite chilli at the one place - John knows what he wants. 

John indeed knows, because he hums, looks for the number among their pile of takeaway menus, and then rings them and orders exactly that. 

Sherlock looks at his laptop and connects it to the speakers. He can’t pick something sad, not now. John comes to look at the screen, too. “Do you know what our first dance will be?” 

“No.” No, he hasn’t thought about it yet. Should he? It is what prospective brides and grooms do - it was on the list. But John hadn’t specified, and Sherlock is fairly certain that they don’t ‘have a song’ as the magazines suggested. 

“We’ll find something.” John doesn’t sound particularly concerned. 

Sherlock picks an album he remembers John liking. 

John says, “Do I wear the shoes already, or?” 

No, John has a tendency to step on his toes, Sherlock remembers that well enough. “Socks.”

John laughs. “Sure.” He takes his shoes off, and then pushes the living room table aside. 

Seeing him there, Sherlock remembers sitting on the sofa with Mycroft earlier and enquires, “You’re not going to Mycroft tonight?” Mycroft might be expecting John. And as much as Sherlock wants to keep John here, that is important, too. 

“No, not tonight. Since he has both the kids, I figured… But we’ve texted.” A smile plays on John’s lips as he talks about it. “We’ll see when it works out.” 

John looks so content that Sherlock can feel himself fill with warmth by just looking at him. “He’s still unsure. You need to make him feel that it’s real. That you’re committed to him.”

John seems mildly surprised at his advice. “I’ll try to?”

Sherlock nods. He plays the music, adjusts the sound level, and takes his own shoes off. Then he puts a hand on John’s shoulder and one on his waist, and says, “I’m leading.” 

John gives him a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, are you?” 

Sherlock can feel the tension underneath that question, and he knows what John means - it’s a sexual joke. But he says, “I am the superior dancer, John. You need to follow my lead.” 

John seems amused. “Well, then.” He takes a step to the side. “Teach me a thing or two.” 

Sherlock leads him backwards and then forwards in a slow shuffle to the music. John is still as terrible a dancer as Sherlock remembers, but it feels a lot less tense now than it did years ago. John’s body easily curves to his touch. When John steps on Sherlock’s foot, he doesn’t curse, he just laughs, wiggles his toes, and tries again. They spin in eager circles, their legs awkwardly turning and intersecting, and then slow it down. 

John tucks his face against Sherlock’s neck, and they move in small steps, just rocking back and forth to the music, Sherlock with his arms full of a warm John. 

Sherlock nuzzles John’s hairline. Then kisses him on the forehead, which makes John smile up at him. 

They both startle when the doorbell rings and the takeaway arrives. 

They eat, and then go to bed embarrassingly early, because after two consecutive nights of dealing with a sick William, they are both exhausted. 

Sherlock rolls over to John in bed and holds him for a moment like the way they were dancing, tangled up together, face to face. John exhales warmly against his shoulder and whispers, “Can’t wait to marry you.” 

Sherlock agrees. He can feel a small, expectant wiggle in his stomach whenever he thinks of it, and he thinks of it often. “Five weeks and four days.”

“And then you’re all mine.” 

John’s joking - his voice is mild - but Sherlock feels the exactly the same. They’ll belong to each other, then. Forever. 

He can’t wait, either.

 

 

 

 

 


	114. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft’s mind dwells on John, Sherlock, and all the possible effects of his actions. Allowing himself to be that close to John again has felt instantly gratifying, but the possible complications are not any less dangerous than they were a few days ago. Mycroft knows that he needs to proceed with caution. 

He lies awake for hours, thinking of what is expected of him now. 

John claimed that sex is not a necessity to him, but the truth is that Mycroft feels just as incapable of providing John with the other things he requested. Texting, going out on Sundays, being there for the children, sleeping over, talking - Mycroft paid close attention to what John mentioned and he will do his very best to provide each one, but what he fears is the expectation behind it. _Love._ Or companionship, understanding, an idea of commitment. John is looking for these things now as well, and it changes the tone between them. 

John says he loves him, and Mycroft assumes that is true in the way that John means it. Mycroft can understand that John feels a warmth and a fondness for him. But at the same time, Mycroft is certain that John is putting too much faith into him and what they might still share. 

Since William’s birth, Mycroft is nowhere near the same. His body is much changed, naturally. He is a sagging, scarred, pale thing. But mainly he does not feel that endless wave of happiness he remembers from the last few months of pregnancy. That overwhelming desire to be with John feels like a distant dream. It is a version of himself that he will never be able to regain, and if that is what John expects, or requires, then he will be sorely disappointed. 

But he is not yet.

The next day, Mycroft tries to approach it as rationally as he can with Sherlock. He is aware that he is asking once again for the greatest gift of all - to have a piece of what Sherlock holds the most dear, presumably for a long time to come. But Sherlock seems, as he so often does, to underestimate the sheer difficulty of this. How can they share, when there are no clear rules to follow? Does Sherlock just assume that it will work out because they want it to? 

Then again, that is exactly what both Sherlock and John seem to think. And Mycroft does have to admit that it did work when they had this arrangement earlier, it is just that he cannot help but want to plan this. To arrange it, to make it all seem managed and orderly in his mind, so that it does not feel as overwhelming as it truly is. 

It holds so very much emotion. 

Perhaps that is why he fears it so. 

Sherlock bonds with apparent gusto, and Mycroft does not stop him. He does not know whether Sherlock is appeasing his own fears, or somehow claiming him, or John. Just that Sherlock gave him even more without asking anything back. 

Sherlock once asked him for a child to repay his debt. Mycroft had then briefly argued against it, but he knows that in truth, it is exactly what he gave Sherlock with William. He tried to repay Sherlock by giving him what he desired. But now, because of it, Sherlock is again offering him so much in return. And Mycroft does not know how to respond to it. 

How can he ever claim to have repaid Sherlock, when all Sherlock does is love their children fiercely? And for himself, Mycroft cannot doubt that Sherlock cares for him. When he thinks about the kindness Sherlock has shown him through John, Mycroft feels shocked to his core. 

He never deserved such consideration. 

He does not have enough to give in return to either of them. But he must try. Sherlock told him that while he might be inadequate, he must give everything he can. Mycroft had thought it sounded overly simplistic at the time, but he thinks now that there was a truth to it. 

Yes, he failed, as he has failed so very often. But all he can do is try to give more of himself. 

That night, at some undefined hour after feeding and nappies and heavy fatigue, Mycroft holds William. 

Thinking of what Sherlock said, Mycroft holds William’s small, warm body close, and tells him, “I care for you.” Mycroft can feel a press in his throat as he speaks. “Please know that you are loved, and you…” Mycroft swallows. “You frightened me. I do not wish to lose you.” 

Mycroft thinks of John offering to have a child together, so long ago. And William now, here, in his arms. 

“And you have given me so much.” 

William yawns, and Mycroft can feel himself smile at his expression. 

He puts him to bed.

 

-

 

The next morning, Mycroft attempts to dress Violet. She whines, struggles, and screams well on her way to the first tantrum of the day. “No, no, no clothes, noooooo!” 

Mycroft says, “All right.” 

Violet stills, unsure of how to respond.

He asks her, “When will you be ready to wear your clothes?” 

Violet looks at him attentively. Then she thinks about it and says, mischievously, “First eating.” 

Mycroft allows her to undress again completely, then he takes her down to breakfast not wearing a scrap of clothing. He gives her food to eat while he makes a bottle for a prattling William, feeling rather as if he might have lost his mind. But Violet is remarkably well behaved. Usually she would be throwing her spoon on the floor by now just to wind him up, but now she is eating while talking animatedly to William. Of course she is entirely naked, but Mycroft tries to look on the bright side. 

After she has eaten, he says, “Breakfast is over now, so you need to wear your clothes.” 

Violet looks at him, clearly trying to decide whether to fight him on that or not. Mycroft moves away, pretends to be busy, and says, aware that it might be too hard a task for her to accomplish but that she should be allowed some measure of independence, “Go get your clothes in the bathroom and get dressed. Nanny will be here soon.” 

When he turns back around, Violet has gone. 

He gives her a cautious three minutes before checking in on her. She is wearing her shirt inside out and struggling with her leggings, but she does allow him to help. 

Mycroft, for the first time in weeks, makes it out of the door without having to face a tantrum. 

And there is a new text from John, “Morning, how are you doing with the twin terrors of newborn crying and terrible-twos crying, aka our sweet children? J” 

_Our_. Mycroft texts from the car, “Said darling children were, through a combination of positive reinforcement and reverse psychology, remarkably well behaved this morning. I am somewhat apprehensive. M” 

John replies, “Oh god, whatever you did, please teach me! When I’m alone, they pretty much break me. J” And then, “Also, the shoes look great. I’m still as horrible as I remember, but it’s sort of fun. You much of a dancer? J” 

Mycroft thinks about it. “No, I have not had the chance to do so in many years. M” 

“Well, then you’re in for a treat at the wedding. If I’m not getting out of it, neither are you. J” 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “I believe I will be entirely too busy with the children to oblige. I will, however, watch and cheer you both on appropriately. M” 

“You, cheering? All right, deal, I’d love to see that. J” 

And so on. They talk all day, and Mycroft is aware that it is somewhat immature behaviour. There are much more pressing things he should be concerning himself with. But he cannot help it - every time his phone buzzes, he checks the screen, reads John’s message, and constructs a reply. 

Mycroft can see that this is a way for both of them to be assured that they can still do this. It removes the pressure of a phone call or speaking in person, where they would have to discuss more difficult topics. He knows that much, but still it is, unabashedly… distracting. 

 

-

 

When Mycroft goes to pick William up and see Violet in Baker Street that evening, he knows that John will be there. It will be the first time they speak in person since kissing forty-eight hours ago, and he feels a sense of dread. 

Mycroft has worked himself up into a quite unpleasant mood by the time he actually is there. Perhaps he should not. _Clearly_ it is a terrible idea. He knows it is. 

But once he opens the door to see John and Sherlock chasing a squealing Violet around the room, he finds that he cannot hold onto it. Not when John stops, apparently out of breath, and grins widely at him. “Hi, you.” 

Sherlock speeds up, grabs Violet from behind, and lifts her over his head, to her great and piercingly loud delight, and then runs her over to him. “Father!” She laughs. “Sherlock is tickling me!” 

“Yes.” Mycroft says dryly, “I’m sure you’ll sleep well tonight.” 

“’m not tired!” 

Sherlock says, “Well, the solution to that is clear.” Violet looks at him. “We’ll have to run some more.” Sherlock lets her go, and then chases Violet to the kitchen, giving Mycroft and John a brief moment alone. 

John smiles at him, and Mycroft can feel a tight, hot ball in his stomach. John comes closer and, with a glance, pulls him into a kiss. 

It’s nothing like the last kiss was. This is certain. It’s the kiss of someone who knows him, someone who has had him countless times. John kisses him deeply and Mycroft can feel himself instantly rise to this. He wants…

John, luckily, slows it down. Then says, warmly, “Thought all day about doing that.” 

Mycroft can only nod. 

He feels somewhat shaken and hides it behind gathering William’s nappy bag and dummy. Sherlock had proposed to take both children for a night, but Mycroft is not certain if that is a good idea right now. He eyes John, who seems to be waiting for a cue from him. 

Sherlock holds Violet on his arm and comes back with her so she can say goodnight. 

Mycroft does just that, then he puts William into his carrier and, with a smile that he hopes portrays his gratitude to both of them, leaves. 

He wonders if it is pitiful, that after forty-odd years of being alive and knowing so much more than the average person would, he still does not have the words to express exactly what he wishes to have.

Only the feeling.

 

 

 

 

 


	115. (John)

 

 

John wakes up to a suspicious silence. 

He can remember being woken throughout the night by Sherlock leaving and returning to the bed at least three times. John took William for a night feeding, too. At one point, there was a head butt from Violet. Later, a low cry from William, and the sound of the kettle. Then Sherlock’s muffled curse when he stepped on something that made a loud squeak. Around four, Violet was chanting a song in her sleep about rainbows. 

And now, there is light streaming through the window. John blearily looks at the alarm clock that Sherlock either turned off or forgot to turn on in the first place because it’s after ten in the morning. It’s also bizarrely, _blissfully_ quiet. 

John sits up and tries to remember what day it is, but he’s not sure for a long moment. Then he remembers why Sherlock would be out with both kids - it’s Sunday and Sherlock’s bringing them to Mycroft’s. 

Oh, thank god. 

John gets out of bed and surveys the sheer mayhem in the morning light. 

There is a decapitated Barbie doll lying on the end of the bed. The smell of dirty nappies wafts from the bathroom when he passes it. There are milk-stained blankets strewn over Sherlock’s chair, a pile of bird documentaries on the living room table, and two toy giraffes wedged between the sofa cushions. 

John steps onto a purple hairclip with his bare foot and winces. 

He has to move past a trail of spilled muesli and put a series of half-empty bottles into the sink before he can even _reach_ the kettle to make a cuppa. At least his phone is there, too - John pulls it from under a used bib and a stray dummy. 

There are two texts from Mycroft. They say, “Sherlock informs me that you were still sleeping when he left, so good morning, John. M” and “We are accompanying Violet to the Southbank Centre’s children’s dancing hour. M”

John smiles. 

It’s been two weeks since he got back together with Mycroft. They haven’t done more than kiss and text, but John feels, god, so much better. It _is_ so much better. John missed him - Mycroft. 

More than he ever realised he would. 

John finishes his tea, and then finds a halfway decent shirt to put on so he can go meet them. He texts, “On my way! J”

It’s May, and the weather’s been changing for the better. It’s still a bit chilly, but the sun’s trying. John takes his jacket off as he walks to the tube. 

He’s not actually in a hurry to get there - they’ll do just fine without him - but John walks at a good pace anyway. It’s a bit stupid, if anything, John could use some alone time. But he doesn’t want to miss any of this. Sherlock and Mycroft being out with the kids together is rare enough as it is. 

John wants to see Mycroft more often, too. He did tell him that they don’t need to sleep together, but after kissing him again, _well_. God knows John’s been thinking about it. John’s also pretty sure that the reason Mycroft hasn’t asked him to stay over yet is because as soon as he does spend the night, it’s either going to go there or it isn’t. 

No matter what, he’s going to try not to be disappointed, John tells himself. 

It’s easier said than done, though. 

John can see the sun reflect off the Thames as he crosses the bridge on foot.

The wedding’s in a few weeks. John’s, well, he’s not sure he’s _ready_ for it, as much – is there a feeling for that, ready to get married? But for all intents and purposes, Sherlock is the love of his life, and John’s sure of that. So it’s not like he’s _not_ ready. 

John can’t imagine what it’ll feel like to say those vows to Sherlock, but it is exactly what he wants to do. John would happily do it every time he has Sherlock across from him really, no matter how wrinkled or grumpy or covered in pink glitter or milky puke he is. 

John knows it’s what he wants, and it’s not in the vague way that marrying Mary was what he wanted. Then, all John could of think was ‘the way things are done,’ and ‘for the best.’ 

This is ‘fuck them all, this man and me _belong_.’ 

And Mycroft. 

John is still figuring out how that fits. But despite the ‘maybe sex’ thing, most of that was already in place ages ago, too. It doesn’t take all that much more in terms of arranging or talking. They already had been in a relationship for months before this. 

John maybe didn’t exactly realise it at the time, but he does now. He is dating Mycroft, too. Although _dating_ isn’t really it, just like he never really dated Sherlock. 

More like they _are_ , too. 

 

-

 

John walks into the Southbank Centre to the shrill sounds of a bunch of children playing together. There is a loud children’s song playing, and an instructor speaking into a microphone saying, “And now we’re all turning around like a ballerina... Yes, like that, great job!”

John spots Violet in the crowd. She’s among a whole group of kids, but her bright red jumper stands out. 

Near the corner of the dance floor, John can see Sherlock with Mycroft sitting next to him. Both of them seem pretty out of place sitting on plastic chairs in-between a league of mums and dads. John’s a bit curious to observe them like this, really. They seem perfectly fine, talking about something or other while keeping an encouraging eye on Violet. Sherlock has William in his sling. 

The dance instructor says, “Now clap your hands above your head!” and all the children do. Violet is screaming along with the best of them. 

John walks up and asks, “How’s this, then?”

“ _Terrible_.” Sherlock grins. 

“You did not need to come, John.” Mycroft seems to say it as a kindness. He has a pinched look on his face. 

“Nah, I wanted to. Who needs sleep, right?” John jokes. 

Sherlock says, “Violet was up again at six.” 

“Jesus, thanks for not waking me.” John takes a chair and sits with them.

Sherlock smiles at him again, seemingly happy that he came. The music is too loud to talk a lot really – John can see Mycroft wince as the dance instructor’s microphone screeches. Sherlock is looking rather pained as well. John can’t believe that William is _fast asleep_ , but he is, perfectly comfortable against Sherlock’s chest. 

They watch Violet. The hour’s nearly over, and she seems to be having a great time, at least. John lets his mind wander a bit. 

He is only half-looking at Violet when he sees her make an enthusiastic turn and - John can’t tell how exactly, they were ‘being ninjas’ to the tune of ‘Kung Fu Fighting’ – collide with the boy next to her. The kid goes down. 

John shares a quick look with Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock hesitantly gets up, so John does as well. 

He jogs over to them. The boy’s smaller than Violet, maybe one-and-a-half, and he’s on the floor, crying inconsolably. 

The kid’s mother is running up as well. She wraps her arms around him and cries out, “Quinton, my baby, are you all right?” 

Violet looks at the boy with large eyes, on the verge of bawling herself. Sherlock and Mycroft are right behind him to take Violet, so John tries to shout over the music and asks the mother, “He all right? I’m a doctor.” 

The music stops.

The kid’s howling cries pierce the sudden quiet, but there’s nothing wrong with him, as far as John can see. 

The mum looks at Violet, currently hiding by Sherlock’s legs. “What did you _do_?!” 

John tells her, “I don’t think it was anything serious.” The kid’s crying more because he’s startled than anything else, John thinks. “It was an accident.” 

“Clearly.” Sherlock says. He puts a hand on Violet’s back and steers her towards Mycroft, who immediately lifts her into his arms. 

The woman looks at them while she rocks her son and attempts to calm him down. “You her parents?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says at the same time as Mycroft’s, “Indeed,” and John’s, “Yeah.” 

She looks between them and focuses on John. “Well, you need to control her! An alpha like that, she doesn’t know her strength. You can’t let her do that to other kids!” 

Quinton is sniffing still, but the first shock seems to be wearing off. John feels for him, really, but stuff like this happens all the time, right? 

Violet is crying now, too. She’s leaning onto Mycroft’s chest, and hiding her face into his collar. William has woken up and is complaining, and Sherlock is rocking him slightly to calm him down. 

“We’re sorry, but it was an accident,” John argues. 

“You think that’s enough? She nearly _broke his nose!_ We could _sue_ you!” 

“What?” John can barely believe it. 

Sherlock says, “That would be ambitious of you.” 

“If you feel the need…” Mycroft takes an official-looking business card out of his inside pocket, hands it to her, and gives her a cold smile. “Feel free to contact me through this channel.” 

Mycroft strides off with Violet in his arms. 

Sherlock is right behind him. 

“ _Hey!_ ” The woman yells, but John doesn’t wait to hear the rest. He continues to the door behind Sherlock and Mycroft. 

He can hear Violet say to Mycroft, her voice small in fear, “She angry...” 

Mycroft tells her, “She was not angry, she was frightened. That’s what people do, they shout to cover up their fear.” 

Sherlock holds the door for Mycroft while saying, “That’s right.”

Violet slowly looks up at them and blinks away her tears. 

Once they’re outside, John asks Mycroft, “What was on the card?” 

“It was a business card for MI6, with the contact information of the office of the prime minister.” 

Sherlock’s mouth pulls into a grin. 

“Seriously?” John laughs.

Mycroft says, while rubbing Violet’s back, “I do not take these things lightly, John.”

Of course. _Of course_ he wouldn’t. 

 

-

 

They buy Violet an ice cream. Sherlock has a serious conversation with her about accidentally hurting people and saying sorry, and ten minutes later, all of it is forgotten. 

After wandering the Southbank for a while, they eventually sit down on a bench and keep an eye on Violet as she circles through the crowd to the railing of the Thames, touches it, and runs back. The weather’s still nice. John can feel the chill on his cheeks, but the sun is flirting with the newly green trees. 

William cries a low gurgle, and Sherlock lifts him out of the sling. He’s getting hungry, probably. 

John finds a bottle in the nappy bag and walks to the nearest coffee place. He tries to look appropriately sorry as he asks the bloke behind the counter to warm it up for him.

He returns holding a warm bottle, puts the milk powder into it, shakes, and hands it to Sherlock. Mycroft rummages through the nappy bag to find him a bib. 

William complains a bit more, but then once he gets the idea, he drinks eagerly. 

John’s eyes follow Violet as she runs back and forth. “So… our first time dealing with a kid in trouble?” 

Sherlock says, again, as if he is convincing himself, “She did not _mean_ to.” 

“I know. Just… thinking ahead. Soon it’ll be parent teacher meetings.” If Violet’s anything like Sherlock – and at this point that seems likely - John is imagining quite a few of those. He’s picturing all of them being called into the headteacher’s office to go explain why Violet knows how to dissect a frog, stuff like that. “That’ll be interesting. But we’ll defend her against anything, yeah?” John loves that thought. 

Sherlock immediately agrees, “No teacher can take all three of us.” 

But Mycroft seems more hesitant. “Perhaps... we should not all parent her in public. It might be difficult for her.” 

John looks at Violet running around while occasionally looking back at them with a wide smile. “You think so?” John can’t imagine having _one_ parent stand up for him, let alone three. “You think she’ll get picked on for it?” 

Sherlock says, “No, she won’t.” He seems confident. He eyes Mycroft. “We’ll make sure.” 

John thinks about it. He tries to look at the three of them from the outside. How weird is this, really? He knows it’s only partially about it being three of them. It has more to do with Mycroft being bonded to Sherlock, and with Violet looking so much like Sherlock, too. People could assume things. 

They probably already do. 

John leans over Sherlock and touches Mycroft’s hand. “Well, I don’t give a shit what people think.”

Mycroft looks down at their joined hands and nods, but he still seems unsure. John squeezes Mycroft’s hand in reply, then lets go. 

Sherlock gives them a small smile, then shifts William to lean against his shoulder so he can burp. 

“And Violet...” John looks at her, wildly charging through the Sunday morning crowds, and then looks at Mycroft. “I’m pretty sure she can take it, to be honest.” 

There’s no such thing as having too many people in your corner, right? 

William’s ready to doze off again, and if they can get him home he might sleep for a good two hours now, if they’re lucky. Sherlock puts him back into the sling, and Mycroft calls, “Violet! We’re going home.”

She runs back towards them. John bins Violet’s abandoned ice cream, and then takes Sherlock’s arm as they walk. 

Mycroft is holding Violet’s hand and steering her through the crowd. John glances at him, then at Sherlock, smiles, and reaches out so he can take Mycroft’s arm, too. 

John feels fucking _daring_ being so public about loving both of them. 

It only lasts a moment. The path’s too crowded, and Sherlock has to let go to walk first, then Mycroft steps aside so Violet can walk in front of them. But John can feel it resonate. The sun’s bright, they’re all out here, and it’s… 

Yeah. _This._

He could get used to this.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to take a week off from posting, but it's for a VERY GOOD REASON - I'm spending the week in London and I'm going to check out John and Sherlock's wedding venue. So I'm pleading 'intense dedication to the story' for this one *laughs* **Chapter 116 will be posted on Tuesday the 4th of July.**


	116. (Sherlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from London! *g*

 

 

The wedding is a mere three weeks away. Sherlock remembers the stress of last-minute wedding preparations from John and Mary’s wedding, but it feels entirely different now. 

Then, Sherlock planned all the wedding details during the long, empty days and nights where he was without John. Every moment was aching with loneliness and the idea that he _had_ to do this for John because it was the only thing Sherlock could do to be closer to him. Sherlock knew that he needed to accept Mary in order to support John. He knew that he needed to be there, always, to make up for the pain of having left John once before.

But now he is planning his own wedding to John. 

Sherlock occasionally has to make a very conscious effort to ascertain that he is not in some extended dream. At times, it seems almost more plausible that he is not here at all, and that he is lying somewhere while high on drugs, his mind trying to make all of his deepest desires come true. 

But then Violet asks for a story, or William starts crying, and Sherlock is pulled back into the moment. 

They leave him no choice but to live in the present. Sherlock has to change nappies and wipe bums, provide bottles and hugs, and it is…

Unimaginable. At times it is mind numbing, and at others entirely fascinating. Raising children is one of the most difficult tasks Sherlock has ever set himself to, but he is aware of how very lucky he is to have them. 

Every single day.

 

-

 

Since William’s birth, Sherlock has taken only the cases he could solve easily from home - usually in between William’s night-time feedings. But then Lestrade texts, “I know you’re busy being super-dads over there, but this one’s something special all right,” with a detailed description, and Sherlock is tempted. 

“John?” Sherlock raises his voice, since John is in the bathroom helping Violet. 

“Yeah?” 

Sherlock hears John say, “Well done! Now get down and…” The toilet flushes. There is the sound of the tap running, and Violet’s high voice as she says, “But _why_ is the mirror, John?” Then John’s low-pitched answer. 

Sherlock waits a moment, and John appears. Violet passes him by, crawls onto the sofa, and tells Sherlock, “I did a wee-wee! On the big toilet!” 

Sherlock simply says, “Well done.” It is both important to encourage Violet’s newfound enthusiasm for toilet training, but also to let it appear optional and not forced. Also, he finds the childish term rather annoying, but it is what they taught her at her playgroup. And John says teaching her to say ‘I urinated’ is a bit creepy for a two-and-a-half-year-old. 

John looks at him. “What is it?” 

Sherlock smiles. “ _Case_.” 

John’s face breaks into an equally excited grin and he tells Violet, “Right, I’ll go see if Mrs. Hudson can come over here and watch you, okay?” 

“Yes!” Violet climbs off the sofa and immediately walks over to the bookcase to select a book for Mrs. Hudson to read to her. “I want the bears story. Or the parrot.” As she is browsing, she says, sounding surprisingly adult, “Or the trains would be good. I enjoy trains.” 

John hurries downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson for help, and Sherlock texts Lestrade, “We’re coming.” 

 

-

 

As they hail a cab, Sherlock briefly misses the sensation of the straps of William’s sling around his shoulders - Sherlock likes the weight of him. The closeness as well. But John seems eager for a case, and it makes Sherlock feel a similar shot of excitement. It has been too long since they did this. 

They get in the cab, tell the driver the address, and John asks, “So, what do we know so far?” He looks as if he’s ready to rub his hands together and get down to it, and Sherlock feels a stab of fondness for him. _John._ Going from toilet training to this in an instant suits him. 

Sherlock reads Lestrade’s text messages to John. “Forty-five year old alpha male, nude, stabbed through the heart with a wooden stake.” 

John’s mouth twitches as he says, “What, a vampire, was he?” 

Sherlock adds, “His penis was cut off and inserted into his anus.” 

John winces. “Ouch.” He grins. “...Vampire who‘d been cheating, then?” 

Sherlock nods. “Probably.” 

“ _Nice_.” John means it - he’s impressed. 

Sherlock quickly sends a text to Mycroft. “We’re on a case. Violet at Mrs. Hudson’s. S” 

He can see John take his phone to text as well and glances from the corner of his eye to read what is on the screen, curious to know what John is telling Mycroft. It’s “We’re off to a gruesome murder, if you ever want to finish someone off with a stake through the heart I’ll bring you back some ideas. J” 

Sherlock’s own phone buzzes with Mycroft’s reply first. 

“Noted, I will take them both tonight. I will be there before 7. M” 

Then John gets a reply, and Sherlock cranes his neck to read it. 

John catches him at it. He laughs and tilts the screen. It says, “I prefer more modern methods of torture personally, but then one cannot dismiss those of the past. Enjoy, John. M” and another, “Perhaps consider bringing some garlic or a crucifix. M” 

Sherlock is more amused by John’s obvious glee than he is by Mycroft’s mild jokes - Sherlock never found him all that funny. But seeing John like this pleases Sherlock, and Mycroft must like it as well, judging by his attempts at humour. Even now, John smiles as he types a reply. 

John has seemed happy, lately. He also took a clear stand in favour of the three of them parenting together - Sherlock has heard John’s comments. He stored them in his mind palace and added them to the solid structures there. 

Sherlock fully agrees. 

Sherlock is thinking more about that than he is about the murder, but as they arrive and he can see the building cordoned off by police, he focuses on the case. 

John jumps out of the cab as soon as he’s paid the driver, and Sherlock lifts the barrier tape so John can follow him in. 

John jokingly says, “Thanks, dear.” 

And then Lestrade calls out, “Here they are! The absent detectives.” Lestrade is grinning at them. “I’d almost forgotten what you look like!” 

John says, “Oi, we just had a kid, you know.”

“Yeah, he’s too cute. Molly wants to come over and see Violet about being the flower girls by the way, she-”

Sherlock interrupts them, “Where is the body?” 

“Living room.” Lestrade points, and Sherlock walks into the entirely ordinary house. He can hear Lestrade say to John as he leaves, “Knew he couldn’t resist this one. We’re stumped, though. I mean, who does something like this?” 

Sherlock answers out loud as he walks, aware he’s too far away to be heard, “Someone desperate.”

Any ritual killing needs a context, and murders like these take planning.

Anderson is there, collecting evidence, and some intern is swabbing the wooden stake sticking out of the victim’s chest while ignoring the vital evidence of the stake’s _handle_. 

Sherlock walks in, steps around a pile of police evidence bags, and says, “Don’t bother.” 

His eyes trail over the victim’s hair and fingernails. 

“Oh, you already know what happened?” Anderson sounds less distrustful of him these days. More in awe, really, which is equally annoying at times. 

Sherlock leans over the body. The chest wound with the stake sticking up from it seems to have been perfectly aimed. 

“And, er, congratulations? On your baby. We heard, at the station.” Anderson, as usual, doesn’t know when to shut up. 

There is an elastic band on the floor. 

“William - he was named after you, then?”

Sherlock kneels by the corpse’s legs. The penis has been removed with hesitant and shaky cuts, which is not indicative of the precision the stake suggests. 

Sherlock studies the floor to find the confirmation for what he already deduced. There is a small knick left behind in the wood. 

John comes up behind him, still talking to Lestrade, “Well, this is a special one, isn’t it? Who’d murder someone like this?” 

“No one.” Sherlock says. 

“No one?” Lestrade asks. 

Sherlock grins. “Who says it was _murder?_ ” 

“Wait – he did this to himself?” Lestrade seems disturbed. “You kidding me?” 

John has stepped closer to the body. “No, Sherlock, he couldn’t have - there’s not enough blood. His penis was definitely removed post-mortem.” 

Sherlock smiles at John while the theories dance in his mind. 

It’s a suicide, clearly. The _why_ is obvious from his fingernails. That only leaves the mystery of the setting – any genuine ritualistic intent seems unlikely. It’s too sloppy, too obvious. So it was staged, then. Who would go through the effort to build – or more likely adapt - a rudimentary machine so it can hold a wooden stake?

Also, they need to find whoever removed his penis. 

They spend some hours at Barts checking patient records, then make it to the Cygnet Psychiatric Hospital in Harrow around ten in the evening. The victim was being treated there for a delusional disorder, as well as recently diagnosed with late-stage cancer. 

Sherlock sits through the entirely uninformative chat with the director – she doesn’t know a thing, when do they ever? Then finds the nurse who met the would-be vampire on her night shifts. 

She recently lost a parent to cancer, as well. 

Sherlock doesn’t have to push very hard to make her break down in tears and confess. Turns out the victim gave up on his chemotherapy and dreamed up a very specific suicide instead. He set up a carefully calculated machine with a wooden stake, tied an elastic band around his penis, and asked her to cut it off for him afterwards, as well as remove the machine that held the stake. 

On the way home, John says, “Well, _that_ was one of the weirder ones.” 

“She gave him the death he craved, John.” It was clearly done out of a wish to please him. Sherlock finds it rather touching. 

“What, you mean you approve? She did cut his cock off, that’s more than a bit not sane, isn’t it?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I believe he must have gained some satisfaction from the thought. She wanted to give him what he wanted, even in death.” 

“You telling me that you think it’s _romantic?_ ” John sounds taken aback. 

Sherlock looks out of the window and smiles.

“Is this you telling me you’d cut my cock off and stuff it in my arse if I asked you to? Because for the record, I’m not sure I’d be into that - even if I’m dead.” 

“Anything for love, John.” Sherlock says. 

John laughs, loudly. 

“In sickness and in health?” 

“In suicide and in genital mutilation.” Sherlock concurs. 

John giggles.

 

 

 

 

 


	117. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft is slowly settling into his closer connection with John. 

John texts him multiple times a day. He is upbeat when they are together, he is there for the children, and he is everything that Mycroft could wish him to be. But Mycroft has not asked John to spend the night at his home yet, because in some way, he fears doing so. 

Mycroft wonders at himself now. The things he did when pregnant, and how open and physical he managed to be around John. It seems like such a distant memory. 

Even assuming that John would still find him attractive – or more likely that John is indiscriminate enough in his sexual partners to find any issue with him - Mycroft is not certain he can let himself be seen in that manner again. 

He does not crave sex in the same way he did while pregnant. And without the pregnancy hormones playing between them, John’s sexual desire will be lessened as well. So Mycroft is fairly certain that if they do spend the night together, they will both find it only a pale imitation of the moments shared between them in the past. 

Perhaps it would still be worthwhile. But Mycroft cannot be fully certain, and that thought troubles him. 

John does not seem to be struggling with similar doubts concerning their relationship. It is quite the opposite - John is being bold in proclaiming their love. He seems so _certain_. 

Mycroft watched John claim Violet as his in public, entirely unconcerned of how it may appear to others. John took both Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s arm and walked in-between them as well. And Mycroft had understood the gesture - he might even have felt some appreciation at it - but he had to fight himself not to pull away. He felt a deep conflict at being _seen_ like that. 

He has never properly considered the question of disclosure.

All through this, Mycroft had thought that this would be a matter of keeping the children safe and raising them between Baker Street and his own house. But Mycroft had assumed that their bond and mutual closeness would only exist behind closed doors. Mycroft had allowed some knowledge to John and Sherlock’s closest friends, but how can they be a family in public? How can people know that these are _their_ children, when Sherlock is his brother? 

It has been accepted well by the select people who are aware of how it came to be, but that will not be the case if they are simply going out as a family. 

Mycroft is aware of John’s clear-cut desire to be honest about their life, and of course John and Sherlock are also allowed to say that they are William’s and Violet’s parents. But Mycroft is not at all comfortable with possibly exposing Violet, and later, William, to ridicule. 

He could simply avoid outings and stay out of most of Violet’s schooling, but that seems impractical, and more importantly, it is not the version of a parent Mycroft wishes to be. Mycroft had been pushing himself to go out more often exactly with Violet in mind. He wishes for both Violet and William to have memories of pleasant activities with him as well. 

And Mycroft did enjoy being outside with both children and Sherlock and John. Having a Sunday morning together was a rather unexpected pleasure. 

But as to how it _looks_ … 

Surely it will not be beneficial for Violet to be known as the child with three parents. 

It plays on Mycroft’s mind, but he cannot find a clear solution. 

He is not certain what would be best. 

 

-

 

Mycroft is dealing with a renegade Russian spy who has offered to sell state secrets to them – it is a minor thing and entirely below Mycroft’s usual level of interest of course, but such secrets are interesting currency on a global level, especially because Putin is altogether too ambitious – when Anthea asks him, “Sir, a personal question?” 

Mycroft looks at her, rather surprised at hearing Anthea use the term ‘personal’. 

“Any recommendations for a present for a seven-year-old’s birthday? Male, alpha.” 

Mycroft focuses on the question and tries to answer it to the best of his ability. “I believe it would depend heavily on his interests.” He thinks through Violet’s toys and what she is most interested in right now, then ages them up. “Books, but only if they are about a topic he would enjoy. A train set, fire engine, anything machinery related. Balls, games, anything with speed to underscore a competitive nature. Something that can be played with outside, can take some force and is not easily destroyed. Marbles, building blocks, or Legos. A remote controlled car, perhaps? Not something that flies, as that is harder to steer and more fragile.” 

Anthea listens carefully, then nods. “Understood.” 

Mycroft would ask whose birthday this concerns, but he is conscious of the fact that Anthea, much like himself, is a very private person. So he turns back to his work. 

After a moment, she offers, “I am... seeing someone. She has a son.” 

Mycroft, still looking at his work, says, “You could take some hours off on his birthday. Take them out somewhere.” 

She is quiet.

Mycroft risks a glance. Anthea does not seem touched by his offer, simply somewhat pensive. 

_Ah_. Mycroft knows the process of trying to imagine what another wants. He has spent many hours of his life doing just that, trying to put himself into someone else’s position and to discern their reactions in advance. He says, “I believe it would be considered to be a welcome gesture. I would suggest taking them to a park, or a playground. You can have a conversation while the boy plays, and it will show your willingness to make allowances for her child.” 

Anthea nods consideringly. 

She doesn’t thank him, but then Mycroft never explicitly thanks her for any of the things she does, either. 

It is not necessary between them. 

For a long time, Mycroft would have considered Anthea to be his only friendly connection. _Friend_ would not have been the correct term, and it still is not, considering that she is his employee. But she is a highly organised and skilful woman, and Mycroft respects her and implicitly trusts her reasoning. But it is not until this moment that he has realised that perhaps they are rather alike when it comes to their associations with others. 

Mycroft can see his own reactions to John in her careful, thought out approach.

Perhaps this is what love looks like on people like them. 

 

-

 

While Mycroft feeds William at night in his bedroom and listens to the soft sounds of William sucking, his thoughts stray to John again. 

If John were here tonight, would they be feeding William together? 

Mycroft thinks of John standing in the doorway to Violet’s room and listening to him reading her a bedtime story. And of John tucking her in, and then smiling at him. John joining him in his library, and quietly reading a book while Mycroft finishes some work with the strong, certain idea between them that they will soon retire together. 

It is a bizarrely domestic fantasy, and Mycroft is aware of its idealised nature. 

But it is something he wishes for deeply. 

 

-

 

The next day, Mycroft walks into Baker Street to find William on the kitchen table, fast asleep in his car seat. 

John explains, “I couldn’t get him down at all! So eventually, I put him in there. He’s been asleep for twenty minutes.”

Mycroft watches William. His small face is slack in sleep. His open mouth makes a soft ‘o’ as he breathes. His eyelashes are visible, as well as the soft rose hue of his cheeks. Sometimes it still hits him that he has a _child_ , an entire human being that he made with John. 

John smiles at his expression. “He’s so peaceful when he’s asleep, isn’t he?”

Mycroft smiles back. “Indeed.” 

John walks towards the sofa. “Sherlock took Violet out to a toddler painting thing in the V&A. They’ll be back in a bit, I think. You have her tonight, yeah?” 

“Yes.” Violet is scheduled to sleep at home tonight. They all share an adjustable planner through an app on their phones now. It means they can change who is taking which child where more easily. 

“Sit down then?” John asks. “Enjoy the quiet, I worked hard for it.” 

Mycroft nods. He sits down on the sofa, a small distance from John, and relaxes into the cushions. He has sat here so often, nearly always for bonding, and his body seems to associate this space with comfort. 

John looks at him with clear intent, then puts his arms around him and pulls him into a warm embrace. 

Mycroft feels briefly stunned. He has never done this, _cuddling on the sofa_. He feels stiff, awkward, and entirely out of place. He does take pleasure in John’s warm touch, but he is simply not this sort of… 

John kisses him on the side of his face. It is a very gentle press of lips, but Mycroft instinctively tilts his head towards John to catch his lips, and John laughs, then kisses him properly. Mycroft’s stomach contracts at the feeling. 

It is a long, slow glide of lips, and Mycroft’s body seems to waver with it. 

He cannot seem to stop himself from wanting this. Eventually, Mycroft pushes John back somewhat, glances at him, and then slowly leans in himself, fully intending to take control. 

John breathes a shuddering breath.

Mycroft leans over him and steers the kiss himself. He nips John’s lips, then kisses him harder. John’s fingers grip his neck, and his nails become pressure points of pain as he holds on. 

John pushes him back against the cushions and kisses him as if he needs to, as if he is _hungry_ for it. 

Mycroft cannot find the words to reply. Instead, he lowers an arm and squeezes John’s arse, which makes John stutters in the kiss and softly swear, “Oh, fuck.” 

Mycroft moves with him, feeling as if they are one. They kiss, again and again. John nuzzles the side of his jaw, then bites the side of his neck in a quick, cheeky bite. Mycroft smiles, and pulls him in for another kiss. 

John refuses, instead whispers into his ear, “ _Let me suck you off?_ ” 

The desire that meets him in John’s eyes is startlingly familiar. 

Mycroft swallows against the bright heat blooming in his stomach. He nods, once. 

And John slides down to kneel on the floor. 

Mycroft is very aware that they should not do this here, in Baker Street. But John helps unbutton his trousers, Mycroft pushes them down, and John does not waste a moment. He leans down, and Mycroft has to bite his lip in order not to make a sound. 

The _heat_ of John’s mouth, the slickness of it, the press of his tongue... Mycroft feels as if he entirely had forgotten what this is truly like. He is aware that he is shaking. 

John’s face is close to his stomach, moving back and forth right over the space of his open fly, and Mycroft helplessly reaches out and feels the short strands of John’s greying hair under his fingers. Mycroft touches John’s cheek as John sucks, and John smiles around his erection. 

For a moment, Mycroft feels a tenderness that has nothing to do with sex. It is a pleasure that transcends John’s mouth to know that they are doing this out of love for one another. And Mycroft does love John, undoubtedly. 

And then John pulls off, smiles at him with heated eyes, and licks the head of Mycroft’s erection with the flat of his tongue while using his hand on him the way he knows Mycroft cannot resist. 

“Hn!” Mycroft suppresses the sound and tenses. He can feel his heart pound heavily. The urge for orgasm already coils in his spine. 

John just looks at him - wild, wicked, lovingly - and then sucks him down again. 

The movements pull him along, and Mycroft has not been touched in months, he cannot stop this. He takes a desperate breath and gives in. He can feel it rush out of him in long spurts.

He lies back against the sofa cushions. 

John swallows, then wipes his red, spit-slicked lips and starts to say, “That was-”

When they can hear the door downstairs open, and Violet’s high voice. 

“Shit!” John gets up. Mycroft does as well - he quickly pulls his pants and trousers up and straightens out his clothing as well as he can. He can hear them walking up the stairs. 

Violet opens the door herself. She sees them and announces, “I did painting!” 

“...Painting? Yeah?” John says. As he moves it is _entirely_ obvious that he is fully aroused. 

Sherlock is right behind Violet. Mycroft nods a quick greeting towards him but he finds it impossible to meet his eyes. Instead, he collects Violet’s belongings as quickly as he can. 

“William fell asleep?” Sherlock sounds amused, mainly. 

“Eventually, yeah,” John says. He seems much less self-conscious than Mycroft feels. 

But, of course, John has had sex with Sherlock as well, which is a fact that Mycroft prefers not to think about in any depth. Mycroft tells Violet, “We’re going home, is there anything you want to take with you?” 

“My dolly.”

“All right, then. Go find it.” 

John, to Mycroft’s embarrassment, draws him in for a small kiss goodbye and says, “Sorry about the timing.” 

“...Yes.” Mycroft glances at Sherlock, who gives them a knowing look. He is clearly all too aware of what just happened. 

Mycroft leaves with Violet. 

He is still feeling flustered when they make it home twenty minutes later.

 

 

 

 

 


	118. (John)

 

 

John’s _dying_ here. He just sucked Mycroft off and that was great... until Sherlock and Violet came home. 

Sherlock seems to think it’s funny, and John’s inclined to agree. It _is_ hilarious in a way – he’s hard as hell and Mycroft just walked out of here looking like he’s on fire. 

John loved it. Just making out for these last couple of weeks has felt like a drawn-out burn and John has enjoyed every second of it. To see Mycroft’s eyes slowly heat up, to break that iron will bit by bit. The first little twitch of Mycroft’s hips, the smallest sigh, the quick brush against his crotch, the tremble of his hand. His _look_ when John went down on his knees. 

John wants to text him right now to suggest that he stays over at Mycroft’s tonight, but that might not be the best idea, so he doesn’t. Mycroft can set the pace. That’s fine. 

That does leave John with an insistent hard-on, though. 

Sherlock looks at him. “Are you going to masturbate?”

John winces. _Long live the mood._ But he knows Sherlock means well, so he admits, “...I might, yeah.” 

Sherlock glances at William in his car seat on the kitchen table. William is fussing a little. He was partially woken up by Violet’s enthusiastic voice, but he sounds as if he might doze off again. Sherlock says, “Come to the bedroom.” 

Well! John’s ready to move in an instant. Sherlock goes first, and John leaves the door open behind them. If William starts crying, they’ll hear him. 

Sherlock eyes him and says, “Lower your trousers and sit on the bed.” 

John thought he would just have a wank on his own, but with Sherlock watching it will feel miles better. John unzips his jeans. With a look to Sherlock, John pulls his pants down over his cock, and then sits on the edge of the bed. “Like this?” 

“Yes.” 

Sherlock kneels on the bed behind him. 

He’s going to bond? John’s cock bounces up at the thought. 

Sherlock puts his hands on his shoulders and says, “Go ahead.”

John wraps his hand around his cock and strokes himself while the arousal pulses through him. He was already pretty much there after getting to suck Mycroft off - god, he can still _taste_ the musk on his tongue. Still feel the shape of him in his mouth. And now Sherlock... Sherlock feels like he’s towering behind him.

Sherlock rumbles a gentle, “Mm,” and brushes his nose to John’s neck. 

John roughly strokes his erection. Sherlock goes back to teasing a bite, and John’s balls draw up. 

Sherlock whispers, “Come for me, John.” 

John groans – Sherlock’s _voice_ \- and he gushes into his hand as he comes. 

“Good.” Sherlock sounds pleased. 

He shuffles off the bed to go check on William’s low prattling cry. 

John lets himself fall back on the bed, his hand on his still pulsing cock. He got hard sucking Mycroft, and Sherlock just finished the job, which is entirely insane but lord does it ever get him off. John laughs breathlessly.

Sherlock comes back with William cradled in one arm and hands him a wet towel as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Here.” 

John sits up and wipes his cock with it, catching Sherlock’s satisfied expression. 

The fucker is congratulating himself on this. And dammit, John can’t do anything but feel great, too. _Who gets to do shit like this?_ He says, “Thanks, for doing that.”

Sherlock nods seriously. Then he walks off to prepare a bottle for William. 

John finishes cleaning up, pulls his pants up, and finds his laptop. He needs to write a blog post about the vampire case. Before he starts though, John texts Mycroft. “Sorry that got interrupted... J” 

Mycroft texts back, “I was, indeed, sorry. M” And it feels even more like John’s in some sort of wild dream, here. 

Sherlock glances at him while patting William’s back, and John grins at him as he types, ‘The Nurse Who Loved Him’. 

 

-

 

They’re getting married in less than two weeks.

There’s something that needs doing for the wedding every single day now. Selecting the music, checking the guest list, calling the caterer, making sure the hotel rooms are booked for everyone... It’s a never-ending list of things ‘for the big day’, as Sherlock has started calling it. Which cracks John up every time he does it because it sounds like he got it straight out of a bridal magazine. 

Sherlock was a weird and overly involved mess at John’s first wedding, so John had been mentally prepared for it to go exactly the same way. He was imagining Sherlock waking him up at 4AM to ask what his favourite shade of blue is, or whether he likes Taiwanese crab. Or for Sherlock to start an involved discussion about the merits of walking down the aisle together versus going old school. 

But it’s been doable, mostly. 

John tells him, “It’s _your_ wedding too, yeah? Go crazy with the, I don’t know, the colour scheme, or the candles, or Violet’s dress if that’s what you want. I just want…” - and that’s when he can feel a wave of excitement himself - “I want everyone there when I put that ring on your finger.” 

Sherlock, predictably, gives him a lingering smile. “I want that, too, John.” 

Then he looks back at his laptop. “Are you certain that you don’t have a preference for the type of honey that is served with the cheese course?” 

John laughs. “I don’t. Seriously. _Promise_.” 

John texts Mycroft, “Wedding preparations all around up in here. I don’t even know what half this stuff is! Sherlock’s having fun though. J” 

Then he gets a group text including Mycroft started by Sherlock - who is texting one-handedly while scrolling on his laptop. “Miel de Lavande superior to Sussex Wildflower Honey? S” 

Mycroft answers Sherlock first. He says, “The Provence flavour of the lavender will complement your goats cheese better, I believe. M” 

And John reads it, closes his eyes, pinches his nose, and feels a laugh thrum in his stomach. “You two are _impossible_ , you know that?” 

Sherlock looks up and says, “He’s good at it.” 

John feels a bit surprised to hear Sherlock admit that out loud. He doesn’t compliment Mycroft often. But John gets what he means - Mycroft’s been great at making suggestions. John texts Mycroft, “…And Sherlock just said that you’re good at this, by the way. Probably insinuating I’m not. But thanks, for helping. J” 

Mycroft replies, “Of course, John. I wish for this to be a memorable day for both of you. M”

It’s going to be that either way, John thinks. 

It’s _them_ \- it’s hardly going to be boring, is it? 

 

-

 

John takes Violet swimming. She’s pretty much fearless in the water - Violet just jumps off the side of the pool into the deep end, floats up again, and then John catches her while she’s wildly giggling. 

It gives Sherlock some peace so William can sleep, and it tires her out like nothing else. 

She was already dozing in the cab home, so John carries her up the stairs and puts her on the sofa. 

William’s down, too. 

And Sherlock smiles and says, “We can rehearse the waltz?” 

John nods. “Sure, why not.” That’s exactly what his life is like these days, dancing in the living room in between wedding-themed mood boards and half-empty baby bottles.

John’s been enjoying the lessons more than last time. Sherlock is a pretty appalling teacher, he just says, “No!” and pulls John along, as if that’s supposed to mean something to him. But John’s hardly going to complain at getting manhandled a bit, even if it’s to Sherlock sternly counting out times. 

And they always spend some time just simply swaying together, too, which John likes more. To close his eyes and lean his face against Sherlock’s shoulder is nice. That’s when they dance best, actually, because then he’s not struggling for control so much. 

Not that they have that much time for it. It’s sort of in-between caring for the kids, whenever possible. 

Sherlock plays some low music. John smiles and pulls him in close. They begin. “One, two, three. One, two, three…” 

They do fine for a minute or so, and then John missteps onto Sherlock’s toes. “Shit, fuck, sorry!”

Violet, apparently awake enough to watch them, giggles from the sofa. “You’re a bad dancer, John!” 

John rolls his eyes. “Everyone’s a critic.” 

Sherlock grins. 

There’s a gentle knock on the door. Mycroft looks at them with some trepidation when it opens, but as he realises what’s going on, he smiles, too. “Dancing lessons, I take it?” 

“I’m dancing, too, Father!” Violet claims. She stands up and does a little shimmy on the sofa. 

“Very good,” Mycroft agrees. 

Sherlock says, “Come here and help me show John the footwork for the turns?”

John looks between them. What, seriously?

Mycroft seems deeply uncomfortable for a moment, then sighs. “...If you insist. _Quickly_.”

Sherlock doesn’t seem at all bothered. “Yes, just a two-minute waltz.”

Mycroft walks up and, somewhat stiffly, puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and one on his waist. John can barely believe it. “Wait, you said you weren’t a dancer!”

“I believe what I said was that it has been _a very long time_.” Mycroft straightens his shoulders and stands up perfectly straight – John can imagine someone pressing a ruler to his back. 

The music starts, and they’re off. It’s obvious that Mycroft is moving a lot less naturally than Sherlock, but they do display perfect footwork. John watches, not sure whether he’s a tad jealous wishing he could dance like that, or whether he just wants them to keep on going because it looks, well, nice. Elegant. 

They’re both just so damn good looking, too. John doesn’t always realise that anymore, but seeing them like this...

“Did you see the turn, John?” 

“Um... Yeah?” 

Sherlock breaks away. “Take my place – Mycroft can lead.” 

John sends a look to Mycroft. As if this wasn’t a tad awkward already, it’s not really made better by Sherlock _making them dance_. But John pulls himself together, and then puts a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder - even higher than Sherlock’s, he’s going to get a crick in his neck at this rate – and one on his side. 

Sherlock counts, “One, two, three.” And they start moving. 

Sherlock seems to think this is all seriousness, because as soon as John missteps and laughs, Sherlock puts a hand on his back and says, “Leg, there, now like that... Keep up, Mycroft!”

Mycroft rolls his eyes at him. “I haven’t done this in twenty years, Sherlock!” But he dances on gamely. 

Violet has joined in - she is twirling on the sofa, spinning her skirt. Sherlock is dancing the steps next to John, showing him what to do. And in a way, John feels insanely happy doing this. Between all of them.

Mycroft taps out after about a minute more, but it’s with a surprisingly indulgent look on his face. He takes the kids home, so John is left stepping on Sherlock’s toes all on his own, but it’s not any less fun. 

After another go through the dance, John asks Sherlock, “So, you and Mycroft took lessons together then?”

Sherlock replies, “Yes, for years. Mummy wouldn’t let me do it without Mycroft, so he had to.” 

It’s the first time he’s mentioned his mother at all since she’s died. John looks at Sherlock’s shoulder and asks, “You ever wish she could have been here? For the wedding?” 

“No.” It’s said with simple conviction. 

John gets it. 

They dance on, even after it’s dark outside the windows. 

 

-

 

Later that night, John texts Mycroft. “Thanks for suffering through that. It’s important to Sherlock, I think. Plus, I kinda liked it. J”

To his surprise, he gets back, “I did as well, John.” M”

So John offers, “Do it again sometime? J” Then, feeling a bit more daring, he continues to type. “Maybe that thing on the sofa, too? J” 

John can imagine Mycroft’s face at reading that. The little frown on his forehead, his long fingers touching his phone, then hesitating. The answer makes him wait for a few long seconds, but when it arrives it’s more than worth it. “Would you like to come over Wednesday evening? M” 

John smiles. _Hell yes_. “Absolutely. J”

 

 

 

 

 


	119. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock wants the wedding to be perfect. 

This will be the moment where he will be allowed to tell everyone that he wants John to be his. From that day on, they will be bound together. 

It’s a striking thought. 

Sherlock spends a lot of time with Mrs. Hudson going over the details, because John’s eyes tend to glaze over when Sherlock gives him too much information in one sitting. And Mycroft claims that he has work to do and ‘Please Sherlock, you cannot come here every single day!’ So Mrs. Hudson it is. She’s not particularly insightful when it comes to planning, but she is very willing to listen and feed him biscuits and tea. 

Her hip has been bothering her a lot more, lately. Sherlock noticed a metal cane standing by her coat rack in the hall a few weeks ago, although he hasn’t seen her use it once. She’s too proud for it. This morning, it’s half-hidden behind her nicely pressed dress and jacket and a brand new hatbox in preparation for the wedding. 

She’ll refuse to use it. But she likes to dance. She _should_ dance at their wedding. Sherlock takes the cane, measures it, and texts Mycroft to ask, “Best London shop to get a cane custom-made? S” 

Mycroft sends him to an old shop on New Oxford Street that sells hundreds of canes. Sherlock asks John to come along – John does have first-hand experience - and together they select one that matches her outfit for the wedding.

They present her with the gift when she comes up to ‘check on their dishes’ but mostly to hold William. She gasps when she sees the dark wood. 

“The handle matches the shade of purple of your dress, plus the floral design will compliment the dahlias on your hat,” Sherlock says.

“It should be the right height, but you should practice a bit with it. See if it feels stable?” John offers, “I can show you how to do the stairs with it, if you want.” 

Mrs. Hudson is silent for a moment. Then she says, a little emotional, “Well, I better make sure my corsage matches it too, then!” 

“You can look through the florist’s website. Here...” Sherlock opens it on his phone. “What are your thoughts on the Sherwood’s Peach variety?”

She gives them both a hug later and whispers, “Thank you, boys.” 

 

-

 

Sherlock visits the morgue, and Molly asks - while squeezing a large intestine with her gloved hand to expel the chunks of chyme into a bowl with wet splashes - “Are you nervous?” 

“No.” Sherlock feels excitement and a certain level of apprehension for things that might go wrong, but he’s not _nervous_. 

He asks Molly, enquiringly, “Should I be?” 

Molly smiles. “I wasn’t. I mean, I was in advance, when we were planning to elope, all of that. But when I was standing there, finally? I looked at Greg, and I just… I could feel all of the doubt fall away. I knew it was him I wanted to marry, and then it wasn’t scary at all anymore.” 

Sherlock considers it. Will it feel similarly to him? 

He eyes Molly, covered up to her elbows in congealed blood and stomach juices, and asks, “What are you doing with your hair?” 

“I thought just pinning it up? I have a hat.” 

Sherlock makes a mental note to add her to the list. “I’ll get you an appointment with the hairdresser.” John has one, too, even though he doesn’t know it yet. 

Sherlock stays to help her dissect the liver, then takes some of the large intestine and puts it in a Tupperware box to take home. He says, “I have to go, John has had both the kids for a few hours now. Email me the stomach contents report?” 

“Okay.” Molly laughs and then says, “You know, I never thought this would be… you?” 

Sherlock frowns and pauses on the way out. “What?” 

“Being a dad? And getting married, too. I have to say…” Molly smiles. “It suits you, Sherlock.” 

Does it? “See you at the wedding.” 

“I will!” 

 

-

 

Sherlock texts Mycroft, “10AM last fitting for my suit. Need your eye. S”

Sherlock has a perfectly good eye himself, and they both know it. But Mycroft is still feeling _unsure_ \- Sherlock can tell - and it will be easier to talk to him as opposed to watching him endlessly agonise over something that should be entirely clear by now. Yes, John can spend the night. Yes, they can be together without it taking anything away from the wedding. There is no reason for Mycroft to assume that it would. 

Mycroft doesn’t even complain or argue that he can’t _possibly_ leave work in the middle of the morning. Instead, Sherlock walks up to the shop on Savile Row to see Mycroft waiting there. 

“Ah, Sherlock.” He puts his phone away and accompanies him inside. 

The tailor meets them, guides them into a large room, and then shows them the suit and the last alterations. It’s entirely bespoke, of course. Sherlock would not get married in anything less. 

They are left alone as Sherlock changes. 

Mycroft sits down on a low settee. There is a curtained off dressing area, but Sherlock starts unbuttoning his shirt right there and says, “You’re spending the night with John on Wednesday.” John showed him the text. 

“...Does this need to be discussed right now?” Mycroft shifts uncomfortably. “Also, there is a perfectly private dressing room over there.” 

Sherlock takes his shirt off and puts it to the side. He sits and removes his shoes, then looks up. “Don’t care.” 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. 

Sherlock unzips his trousers and steps out of them. “We’re spending the night apart before the wedding.” Sherlock collects his new trousers, and then glances at Mycroft. “Let him stay with you then, too.” 

Mycroft looks mildly scandalised at the thought. “Do you genuinely think _the night before your wedding_ is the right time for such a thing?” 

Sherlock shrugs. He closes his trouser buttons and smoothes the fabric down. “It’ll be easier. You take William, I’ll have Violet. That way we can all sleep.” 

Sherlock finds the shirt while feeling Mycroft’s gaze on his back. “...If you think that would be best.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock turns around. 

Mycroft looks away. “And if John wishes to.”

Oh, he’ll wish to. Sherlock has seen him - John smiles whenever he thinks of Mycroft. It makes Sherlock feel good, too, to look at John and see him like this. So all Sherlock needs to do is make certain this works and keeps on working. 

Sherlock buttons up his shirt and glances in the mirror. The shirt does follow the curve of his chest perfectly – he is rather pleased with it. 

He takes his tie next. They decided on which knot to use after discussing the options because this particular one made John grin. Sherlock can see the humour in it as well. He ties a perfect trinity knot. 

Mycroft eyes him. He undoubtedly knows the meaning, but he does not comment on it. 

After a moment of silence, Mycroft asks, “Sherlock… Do you ever consider exactly how unusual it is, what we have done?” 

Sherlock looks back at him. “What, bonding?” 

They never really discussed it. Mycroft needed Sherlock, therefore Sherlock bonded to him. Sherlock once looked up the numbers of sibling bonds and found that they are nearly non-existent. But then _they_ wouldn’t have tried that hard. Sherlock did. 

“Yes. And John…” Mycroft seems to want to make a point. “None of this is remotely normal, or expected. You are aware of that. People will never accept it.” 

Sherlock finds his jacket. “Since when do you care about ‘people’?” 

Mycroft parries, “Why don’t you?” 

Knowing Mycroft, a lot will depend on his answer, so Sherlock turns to look at him. “Because it works.” As Mycroft does not answer, he adds, “Did you ever think I would be happy with anything _remotely normal?_ ” 

Mycroft’s mouth pulls. “Point taken.”

“Or that you would be?” 

Mycroft seems somewhat taken aback at that. He appears to consider it. 

“Then don’t.” Sherlock straightens his tie and looks at his reflection in the mirror. The suits fits perfectly. “Be _happy_ , Mycroft.” Sherlock glances at him. “It’s time you were.”

Mycroft hesitantly nods. 

Sherlock raises his voice to the tailor waiting outside. “Ready!” 

The tailor comes in and they discuss the lines and fit of the suit. Mycroft is entirely courteous with his opinions, but Sherlock can see his thoughts running underneath. 

Good. 

 

-

 

Sherlock sits by the kitchen table late at night, soothing William to sleep while he writes his vows. 

He forwards them to Lestrade to ask for his opinion. Together they go through several drafts, until Lestrade emails, “Jesus, Sherlock, you’re going to make all of them weep again. You realise that, right?” 

Sherlock feels a moment of doubt and sends back, “Shouldn’t I?” Should he not try to put everything he feels for John into words?

“No, you should, go ahead. It’s just that you’re an enormous romantic sod, that’s all.”

Sherlock replies, “John’s the romantic, not me.” 

“I’m starting to think you both are.” 

When John and Sherlock are waltzing around the living room early the next morning, both in their pyjamas - John can just about keep track of the music now - Sherlock tries asking John. “Am I a romantic?” 

John looks at him, laughs, and says, “Sherlock, we’re dancing together at six in the morning to prepare for our wedding.” 

Sherlock frowns. That’s just because William woke them both, and they don’t have many days left - especially since John is going to Mycroft’s for sex tonight - so he dragged John out of bed and...

Sherlock is fairly certain that means _John_ is a romantic, actually. Getting up to dance because he asked him to. Sherlock doesn’t say so, though. He just lets John lead. 

Even though it’s off by about an eighth of a beat.

 

 

 

 

 


	120. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft can feel himself being caught up in the last-minute wedding preparations. 

As the wedding is now only days away, Mycroft receives a barrage of questions, comments, and details from both Sherlock and John hourly. Curiously, both of them seem to consider Mycroft’s opinion on every little detail as important. 

Of course, they have reason to defer to him when it comes to the menu - Mycroft is aware that his taste is much more refined than either Sherlock’s or John’s. There were similar considerations with selecting the tailor. But when it comes to the music, the napkins, the colour scheme, or the flowers, Mycroft is not certain how much his personal opinion should matter, if at all. He has never planned a wedding of his own, after all. In truth, he is much more unprepared than either of them. 

But still, Mycroft gladly organises details. Mycroft desires for them to have the best day possible, naturally. Also, the fact that he is being asked for help in making their wedding happen is more than gratifying. He truly does appreciate it. 

It is the same with John taking his arm in public, or kissing him in Sherlock’s view. Or Sherlock asking him for assistance with dancing, or imploring him to _be happy_. 

Mycroft feels both baffled and silently touched by all of it.

And as it does so very often these days, it all comes back to the same idea. How much are they truly to one another? They are a family, yes, but exactly how? 

How is it that they can function this way? 

 

-

 

Mycroft is in his library, both considering the latest developments in North Korea as well as reading through some field reports from an agent in the United Arab Emirates, when he hears John enter. 

He invited John here, tonight.

The thought alone makes him feel a nervousness that he does not remember from the first time he slept with John. Mycroft knows that he cannot linger in this undefined state of feeling close to John but not revealing too much. More than that, he _wants_ to do this. But they are only days away from the wedding. Perhaps they should wait. 

But Sherlock argued for it, and John seemed only too eager to come by.

It takes exactly nineteen seconds before John appears by the library door, and Mycroft attempts to look absorbed in what he is doing, but it is a complete lie. He can feel an odd awareness of his entire body as John approaches. 

“Hi.” John’s eyes are bright. 

Mycroft gets up from behind his desk. He can feel a flutter of anxiety as he looks John in the eyes and says, “I believe you are here for dancing lessons?” 

John – predictably – laughs. “God, spare me!” 

Mycroft does not give John the time to say more. He draws him in and kisses him, gently, merely as a greeting. And then he says, “I wondered if we might retire to the bedroom?”

John nods. “Hell yeah.” 

John takes the stairs first. Then, with a look towards Mycroft, he takes them even faster, and Mycroft smiles. 

Once there, Mycroft closes the door behind them and John immediately pulls him in and kisses him again. Mycroft replies in kind. He finds himself to be more eager than he has allowed himself to feel. 

John groans, grabs him, and pushes his crotch to Mycroft’s leg as they kiss. 

Mycroft puts a hand between them and squeezes John _right there_ , causing him to mumble, “Oh, yeah.” 

Mycroft’s hands find John’s trouser button, then the zip, and he lowers it. His fingers push between the fabric, and he can feel the outline of John’s erection. John takes a step back to do the same to him, but Mycroft says, “Please allow me to return the favour?” He has been thinking about this since John did it for him on the sofa in Baker Street. Mycroft wants to kneel for John and pleasure him. 

John grins. “Not gonna stop you.” 

Mycroft sinks down to his knees, then looks at John, who takes a shaking breath. Mycroft leans in closer and kisses John’s erection through the layer of fabric. It smells like him. The scent is like a hit to the stomach, both arousing and so familiar it makes Mycroft feel an odd push of emotion. 

John sways somewhat and Mycroft looks up. “You would like this?” 

“Oh, _Christ_.” John laughs. “You have to ask?” 

Mycroft manoeuvres John’s pants down. John is fully hard already, and Mycroft can see the warmth in John’s eyes. John is taking him in as if Mycroft is the best thing he has ever seen between his legs. 

Mycroft leans in. He softly laps his tongue over the side of John’s erection, then sucks the head, marvelling at the taste and how well his body remembers it. The rhythm of it, as well. He instinctively takes John deeper, then teasingly licks around the head again. 

He feels fulfilled by it himself. Especially when he takes John as deep as he can, his nose brushing John’s pubic hair, and John rewards him with a low, long moan. “Mhhh…”

Mycroft moves back and, out of some sense of playfulness, brushes a kiss onto John’s belly. John’s stomach twitches, and John gives him a surprised laugh. 

Mycroft remembers John’s mirth during sex. He remembers the smiles, the breathy laughs, the myriad of ways in which John shows how very pleased he is to do this. Mycroft has missed them all. He allows John’s wet erection to slide into his mouth again, and John’s hand settles over the back of his head, then pulls him in slightly. John is just guiding him, but Mycroft can feel himself ache with arousal at it. 

John, after a few more moments of directing his pleasure, releases him and says, “Come up here?”

Mycroft wipes his mouth with his hand - it is wet with spit and entirely undignified – then stands. John immediately draws him into a kiss. 

John rubs against him, then says, emphatically, “I _missed_ this. You.” 

Mycroft can only agree. He has never particularly enjoyed giving oral sex, but he is quite aroused himself. Is he simply remembering John, and what they used to be? 

John touches him, and Mycroft obediently opens his own trousers and lowers them along with his pants. 

John grins for a moment, then kneels and kisses his way down as well. 

Mycroft feels uneven, standing in the middle of his bedroom while watching John disappear between his legs. He briefly wants to pull John back up and hold him, instead. Bury his face into John’s jumper. But at the first wet touch of John’s mouth, that thought leaves him. John is very skilled at this, and he has missed this particular feeling as well. 

John’s eager, searching mouth moves lower, and his tongue swirls around Mycroft’s balls. Mycroft breathes a ragged breath. His legs start to tremble. 

John looks up and says, “Sit on the bed?” 

Mycroft walks backwards until the back of his knees hit the bed, and then sits on the edge. John moves forwards, and then takes him into his mouth again. 

Mycroft feels wave after wave of John’s sucking and licking. He closes his eyes, and as John sucks his balls into his mouth again, the sensation is so overwhelming he thinks he might orgasm for a moment. He breathes through it and mentally calms himself. 

But John’s fingers circle behind his balls, then press between his buttocks. Mycroft tenses. He twitches as John takes both his balls into his mouth again, and then breaches him with two careful fingers. The feeling is _unbearable_. Mycroft sucks in a breath. “ _John!_ ”

He reaches orgasm, comes and comes at John’s hard sucking of his balls, his muscles contracting over John’s fingers, shaking at the intensity of it. 

Mycroft leans back and breathes. 

John sits up slowly. He seems amused, and when Mycroft looks at him the cause is embarrassingly clear - there are white stripes of ejaculate all over the side of his face, dripping off his cheek. There is even some in his hair. 

Mycroft feels briefly mortified. But John’s laughter is contagious, and he attempts not to be overly embarrassed. He locates his handkerchief and gives it to John. “...My apologies.”

John says, “Good thing you’re always prepared, yeah?” 

John wipes it off as best he can, then throws the handkerchief to the side and grins at him. 

Mycroft is entirely willing to go to his knees again, but John pushes him backwards onto the bed instead and asks, “Kiss me? Just kiss me and…” He takes Mycroft’s hand and puts it on himself. 

Mycroft does so gladly. John smiles against his mouth and moves into his hand. Mycroft kisses John lightly at first, then John just breathes against his lips and groans while his erection leaks in his grip. He is already close to finishing. 

Mycroft kisses him deeply once more while he moves his hand and swipes his thumb over the head, and then John is coming, into his grip. “Ah!”

John leans into him. 

“God.” John sounds warm, as if he is smiling. 

John rolls to Mycroft’s side. He looks rather ruffled. Mycroft does not know what he looks like himself, but he can still feel his legs shaking. Orgasming over John’s face that way, it was so very… indecent. 

John lies back in the bed and smiles. He seems content. He looks at him and says, seemingly jokingly, “Well, _fuck_ hormones, right?” 

Mycroft feels taken aback by it. “…In what way?” 

“That was great, wasn’t it? I don’t feel any less now, than…” John frowns. “Do you?” 

Mycroft does not know how to answer that question. Is John claiming that there is no difference in his sexual desire for him? _None?_ Mycroft can see the implications immediately, but it seems impossible. He focuses on what is simplest and asks, “You are saying that you would wish to do this again?” 

John grins mischievously. “Well, give me an hour.” He stretches out on the bed and laughs. “Okay, maybe two.” 

Mycroft slowly nods. 

They stay in bed, even though they are both mostly dressed. John turns to his side with an arm over Mycroft’s stomach, and they lie close together while John talks about the wedding, Violet, and William. Mycroft answers him while he languishes in the sweet, subtle familiarity of it. 

John stays the night. 

 

-

 

The next day, when Mycroft walks into Baker Street, he cannot help but feel some mild apprehension. Did John truly take pleasure in it as much as he claims he did? Is this enough for him? 

Sherlock is sitting beside some sort of diorama built out of cardboard and made to resemble the wedding venue. It is partially populated by Violet’s Lego figurines, and Violet is helping him move them around. “Father!” 

“Hello, my darling.” Mycroft lifts her up for a kiss. 

Sherlock looks up from adjusting the tables and says, “He enjoyed it.”

“Excuse me?” Mycroft says it before he realises exactly what Sherlock is talking about. He puts Violet down again, and she runs off to get more Lego figurines. 

“Sex last night.” 

John laughs from the sofa. “Jesus, Sherlock - subtle much?” 

He shrugs. “It’s all over you, you’ve been positively _glowing_ all day.” Sherlock looks Mycroft over. “So are you.” 

Mycroft glances at John and awkwardly admits, “I _am_... glad.” 

Sherlock smiles a genuine smile at that, then looks back at his project and asks, “What’s the drink average per guest for the main course, considering that we’re serving the white before the red?” 

Mycroft’s mind provides an answer before he has consciously processed it. “I would say one and a half, considering the amount of children and non-drinkers. Why, do you believe there will not be enough?” 

They get drawn into discussing that. 

 

-

 

The next morning - on the day before the wedding - all three of them take a stroll to the park at Violet’s insistent request. 

Mycroft agreed to take the morning off from work. There is not much left to plan, but he had assumed that John or Sherlock might require his assistance in some way or other. 

Violet is running ahead. She knows the way, and that she has to stop and wait for them by the crossing. 

William is strapped to Mycroft’s chest, which is something that he does not do often and certainly not in public, but Sherlock handed him the sling, and Mycroft did not refuse. 

John smiles and says, “Nice day, yeah? Hopefully it’ll be like this tomorrow.” 

Sherlock says, “There’s a thirty-four percent chance of showers so far, but only in the hours before eleven AM.” 

And Mycroft does not know what else to contribute than, “Historically, on the third of June it has rained only eleven times in the last hundred years.” 

He looked it up in the National Meteorology Library and Archive’s online databases simply wishing to know, not necessarily to share with them. But John’s look is worth it, as well as Sherlock’s considering nod. 

John bumps into him, briefly moulding their sides together in a gesture of comfort and says, “You two are such nerds, you know that?”

Mycroft briefly meets Sherlock’s eyes. “...I believe we’re aware.”

Sherlock grins. “We’re _your_ nerds though, John.”

John laughs. “Well, all right then.” 

Sherlock leans over and slightly adjusts the strap on Mycroft’s shoulder so he is carrying William more evenly, and Mycroft takes a slow breath that seems to warm his chest. _Oh, Sherlock._

Violet shouts, “Faaather, come on!” 

John takes Mycroft’s hand while he tells Violet, “Yes, we’re nearly there. You can push the button for the lights.”

William makes a small gurgle into Mycroft’s chest, and Sherlock tells Mycroft, with obvious pride in his eyes, “I taught her to identify the breeds of ducks.”

John says, “Yeah, she was talking all morning about wanting to show you, Mycroft. She’s excited.”

And Mycroft realises that he has never truly _felt_ this. It is unquantifiable. Indefinable, ungraspable, but perhaps it does not need to be understood in order for it to be felt. 

_Belonging._

 

 

 

 

 


	121. (John)

 

 

On the morning of his wedding, John starts awake in Mycroft’s bed to a buzzing, rapid succession of texts from Sherlock. John squints at his phone. 

“Remind Mycroft to take enough nappies to the church, at least five. S” And, “Good morning, John, I love you, I want to marry you very badly. S” And, “Also William’s blue dummy, so he doesn’t cry during the service. S” And then, “I hope your sex was nice. Don’t forget a copy of your vows - studies show that anxiety highly impacts your ability to recall facts. S”

John smiles. 

It’s early, only around six. It’s light out already – there’s a bit of sunshine peeking past the curtains.

Mycroft stretches out next to him in the bed and asks, “Everything all right?” He sounds tired, but then William was up again at about two.

“Yeah.” John lies back on his pillow and lets the thought fully wake him up. He’s getting married. _Today_. 

Mycroft rolls over. 

The sex _was_ nice, indeed. John can feel a shock of happiness in his stomach. For today, and for all of it. 

He turns to hold Mycroft. He’s been carefully dressed in pyjamas every single time John’s been with him, but John doesn’t mind, not when he can wake up like this and just reach out and _hold_ him. John nestles his face into Mycroft’s shoulder. “Mmmm. Perfect way to wake up.”

He’s aware that he’s pressing his half-hard cock to Mycroft’s arse, but he doesn’t mean much with it. It’s just morning wood. And his body is a tad excited at being here, too. It’s conditioning, probably - John’s got nothing but great memories of this bed. 

Mycroft sounds more awake than John would have given him credit for when he replies, “I am wondering…”

“Yeah?” 

Mycroft turns to look at him. “Would it be indecent of me to offer you oral sex on the morning of your wedding, or would you consider it to be an early wedding gift?” 

John laughs. It always takes him by surprise how funny Mycroft can be when he’s feeling at ease. “I think a gift?” Mycroft reaches for him, and John can feel himself respond already. “Yeah, _definitely_ a gift.” 

 

-

 

Hours later, it’s noon, and John is alone in Mycroft’s house.

John tried to eat something from the impressively filled fridge, but he gave up after half a piece of toast. He showered, then shaved in Mycroft’s spotless bathroom mirror and tried to get his freshly-cut hair into some sort of style. 

He’s re-read his vows enough times to wrinkle the paper. 

He’s looked at his suit, hanging ready in Mycroft’s wardrobe, but he didn’t want to wear it yet just in case he’ll somehow mess it up. 

Mycroft isn’t here. He went to work around seven. John kept William until the nanny came for him at eight. Mycroft said he’d go by Baker Street to pick Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and Violet up before the ceremony, and John had thought that he’d appreciate the time alone in the house beforehand - just getting in some quiet before the day sets off. 

He was wrong. 

The house is huge. It feels empty in a way it never does when Mycroft’s here. John feels more like a burglar than a guest. He keeps on walking back and forth, trying to find something - _anything_ \- to do. 

He’s nervous. He’s not sure why, exactly, but it’s rippling in his stomach. After that first burst of texts early this morning, Sherlock’s quieted down and John hasn’t heard from him. He’s busy, probably. John looks at his phone and doubts on whether to send him something. They shouldn’t talk, right? That’s how it goes, usually, before a wedding. He’s got no idea why, though. 

John walks another circle of the house. 

Then he does send, “I’m nervous. Not sure why. Can’t wait to see you and do this. J” 

He gets a reply within seconds. “I am, too. Nervous. Mrs. Hudson keeps making me endless cups of tea. Please don’t say no at the altar, John. S” 

John laughs reading it. “Say no? I never would. I’m an idiot sometimes, but not that much of one. I love the hell out of you. J” 

The answer is, “You are certain? Promise me. S” 

John types quickly. “I’ll say it now: yes. Forever, endlessly YES. J” 

His heart’s beating kind of fast, saying that, even just through text. It feel important. Like _these_ are their vows, right now, right here, while John is standing in Mycroft’s echoing hallway. 

“Me, too. Yes, until the end of my days. I vow it to you, John. S”

John types, “Consider us married, then. Right now. The rest of today’s just ceremony. We’ve already done it. J”

Sherlock replies, “Agreed. We are married. I love you. S”

“Me, too. Now let’s have the best day we can. I’m getting dressed, and I will see you very soon. J” 

John lays his suit out on Mycroft’s bed, and then puts it on piece by piece. It fits like a glove. John looks in the mirror, still feeling the occasional shock of nerves. He’s getting married. Again. 

It’s not at all the same, though. _He_ ’s not the same. 

John’s ready and waiting by the door at least ten minutes earlier than necessary. He paces the hallway.

When the police car finally pulls up, John closes the door behind him and immediately walks outside to intercept Greg. 

“Hiya.” He gets into the car quickly. 

“Phew!” Greg’s in the driver’s seat, in his Sunday best. “Looking good there, John!” 

John grins. “Shut up.” 

Greg asks, smiling, “You _sure_ you want to marry him, right? ‘Cause he’s going to drive you crazy for life.” 

John tries to laugh through the tension. “Pretty sure, yeah.” 

They leave for the church. 

It’s not that far, but London traffic is busy even on a Saturday afternoon. John keeps on glancing at the clock, even though they’re well ahead of time. 

They pull up in front of Barts a good twenty minutes before the service is meant to start. Greg says, “You want to get out, or…” 

John takes a deep breath. “Yeah, let’s go say hi to everyone.”

He greets everyone, but John can hardly remember who’s who, he just says a series of quick hello’s and ‘thank you for coming.’ Greg ushers him through, and it all passes in a strange haze. Every minute seems to drag, but it’s also as if the day’s thundering ahead – no stopping it now, is there? 

John walks into the church. St.Bartholomew The Great - adjoining the hospital - is the oldest church in London, Sherlock told him. It’s also slowly filling with people. He walks up to the front and meets their registrar, a stern-looking public sector worker. Neither of them were into the idea of a religious ceremony. They found her family dog for her when it was kidnapped a few years back, and she’d been only too happy to do it. 

John checks his phone. There are a couple of texts, but all are well-wishes. He bounces his leg. Greg checks his phone and says, “They’re here.” 

John takes a breath. All right. 

Mycroft walks in, looking splendid in his suit, and with him comes a bit of a hush. 

Right behind him is the nanny, holding William. 

Mycroft joins him, and John immediately asks, “How is he?” 

Mycroft says, “Well, I believe. Also more anxious than I have ever seen him.” Mycroft’s neck is bright red right by the collar. In a weird way, it makes John feel better that Sherlock got some comfort, at least. 

John asks Mycroft, “You ready for this?” 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “I believe I should be the one asking you.” 

“Oh, I’m ready.” John can feel it. 

“You sure?” Greg asks with a grin. 

“Yes.” John shakes out his arms, then straightens his suit. 

And that’s when the music starts. 

John can feel his heart thrum in a weird thump-thump as the inner church doors open. Molly is there, holding Violet’s hand. They’re in matching bright yellow outfits, and Violet has a basket of rose petals to throw. 

...Which she does very enthusiastically. 

John bursts out into a laugh as Violet takes a handful of petals and chucks them onto an unsuspecting couple sitting in the pew.

Next to him, Mycroft says under his breath and somewhat embarrassed, “We did try to teach her.” 

But Violet’s _excited_. Even Molly’s attempts to keep her walking in a straight line are not appreciated as she turns in circles and throws some more petals at random guests. 

Eventually, Molly gives them an overwhelmed look, then manages to get a squirming Violet up in her arms and take charge of the flower petal distribution herself. John laughs as he watches them go. It’s distracting enough that John hadn’t even noticed that Mrs. Hudson is at the edge of the door. And peeking around the door, Sherlock. John meets his eye, and it hits like a hammer. 

_Sherlock_. 

They both take a deep breath. Then glance at Violet - currently fighting Molly for the flower basket - and share a grin. They’re probably supposed to be embarrassed by her, but it’s hilarious, and John loves it. Fuck tradition. Everyone’s laughing. 

Mrs. Hudson says something to Sherlock, and Sherlock takes her arm. She’s not using her cane yet. She looks so proud to be there.

 _Mother of the groom_. John agreed straight away when Sherlock said he wanted to ask her to give him away. Again, it’s not even remotely traditional, but who cares? Both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson are beaming as they walk up together. Sherlock is refusing to do the slow bridal walk and is just striding along, and John can feel himself breathe, now. 

Yeah. _Of course_ they can do this. 

When they reach the front, Mrs. Hudson takes her seat next to Greg. Molly and Violet sit on his other side. Mycroft sits by the nanny with William, who for now is still quiet. 

John faces Sherlock, takes his hand, and they step in front of the registrar. 

This is it, then. 

The words are mostly a blur. 

John does listen to them, and he can hear bits about caring and sickness and health and all that, but what he can _feel_ is Sherlock’s slightly sweaty hand in his. He sees Sherlock’s pale face and feels Sherlock’s deep eyes on him. 

John zones out through some of it, because before he knows it, Greg is there with the rings. 

Greg hands Sherlock one, and the registrar asks, “Will you, the alpha _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_ , take the beta _John Hamish Watson_ to be your lawfully wedded husband, to claim, have and hold?” 

“John.” Sherlock’s voice sounds low and tense, but loud enough to carry through the church. “We picked this church, St.Barts, because it was a beginning.” 

Yes, John remembers it only too well. _The address is 221b Baker Street, and the name is..._

“An ending.” 

John remembers that, too. He didn’t look at the roof of the building on purpose as they drove in past it. 

“...and now a new beginning, for us both.” 

John nods. It is. 

“I do.” Sherlock puts the ring over John’s finger. Sherlock’s hands are shaking. 

“Will you, the beta - ” 

“Yes,” John says it before she’s even finished. 

The registrar smiles and keeps on going, “...the beta _John Hamish Watson_ , take the alpha _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_ , to be your lawfully wedded husband, to accept, have and hold?” 

John says, “Yes. I’ll say it all day if I need to - I do.” 

Sherlock smiles at him. John puts the ring over Sherlock’s finger, and it feels… god. 

Who cares about ceremony - John asks, loudly, “I can kiss him now, right?” 

He’s aware of some laughter behind him. The registrar nods, Sherlock grins, and John pulls him in and kisses him. 

It’s a soft kiss, just a press of lips, but John doesn’t need any more. He comes out of it smiling. “Love you,” he whispers while he tangles their fingers together. 

Sherlock takes a shuddering breath. “I love you, too, John.” 

Mycroft comes up to sign the wedding register as their witness, and so does Greg. Sherlock signs his beautiful signature, John puts his scrawl next to it, and that’s it. 

They turn around, and there’s the bit about going forth and be happy and all of that, but John’s not paying attention. All he can feel is their hands wound so tightly together it nearly hurts. He can see Mrs. Hudson dabbing her eyes with a tissue, Violet bouncing up and down on Molly’s lap, and Mycroft’s kind, intense look. 

And then they’re walking out hand in hand, while some loud and festive organ music plays. 

The outer church doors open, blinding them for a moment, and then they’re being showered in rose petals. Mike and his kids are here. And next to him, Henry Knight with Louise Mortimer and their three-year-old girl.

Sherlock turns to him, “You…?” 

John grins. “I emailed them and asked whether they wanted to come.” 

“We didn’t prepare for…”

John waves at them. “We did. Three extra chairs on the furthest table. Mycroft helped me arrange it.” 

Henry comes up to them. “Congratulations!” 

Sherlock says, “It is... good to see you.”

“You, too.” Henry nods. “Both of you.” 

The next moment they’re being photographed, and then surrounded on all sides with well-wishes and comments. John smiles at everyone, then raises his voice, “Everyone who wants to come along, the party’s that way!”

John doesn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand until they’re safely in the car. It’s one of Mycroft’s black ones, for just the two of them. John asks, “You okay?” 

Sherlock puts his arms around him and holds on. John holds him, too, and breathes. God. They did it. 

Sherlock leans back after a while. “We’re married now, John.” 

“Yeah. We are.”

John takes his hand and grins so hard. “Mine.”

Sherlock smiles. “Mine.”

 

 

 

 

 


	122. (Sherlock)

 

 

In the car, driving away from the church, Sherlock can feel the adrenaline dissipate. 

They chose St.Bartholomew The Great because Molly suggested it, and because it was close to where so much has happened. Sherlock could barely speak when he said that to John. 

_The greatest pain, John. The greatest joy._

It takes twenty-four minutes until they arrive at the small event space and hotel they rented for the occasion, and Sherlock needs every second to pull himself back together into something functioning. It feels unreal that a short ceremony could somehow accomplish something this definite. 

“We’re married.” Sherlock can’t stop repeating it. He holds on to John’s hand.

John says, “We got married through text this morning. I told you, all of this is just the fun bits now.” 

Sherlock nods. Of course. Yes. 

When the car stops and they get out, Sherlock first walks over to Mycroft’s car. He lifts Violet out of her car seat and holds her for a moment. John is right behind him, looking at them both with a fond warmth in his eyes. Violet is a lot more interested in exploring where they are and running around, and the photographer is giving them a pressing look, but Sherlock doesn’t care. He needs to smell her for a second and feel her curls against his cheek. Then he lets her go. 

There are cars pulling up around them and people spilling out. It feels like a wave ready to swallow them, and for a moment, Sherlock wants nothing more than to go home. To pull all of them along and close the door of 221b. Keep John right there on the sofa, William to his chest, Violet on his lap, bond to Mycroft, to keep all of them close and just _his_. 

Mycroft asks him, quietly, “Are you all right?” He awkwardly reaches out a hand and touches Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock looks at him. “I’m _married_.” 

“Yes.” Mycroft smiles. “That was rather the point of today, was it not?” But he seems to understand some of the intensity of it, because he turns so he is in front of Sherlock, shielding him from the arriving guests and making it clear that they should not come over yet.

John comes close as well and says, “Right… We all ready to do this, then?” 

Sherlock takes a breath. _Get it together, this is your wedding._

But John must see some of the rising panic in his eyes, because he says, “Hey, this party’s just for us, right? It’s not…” John shares a look with Mycroft, then lowers his voice. “It’s not like last time.”

Last time. Sherlock gave everything that was in his heart for John, and in return, he had watched John leave him. He had felt so alone. 

But he’s not alone now. Sherlock can still feel the echo of Mycroft’s brief touch on his shoulder. William is a couple of paces away, crying a little but being shushed by the nanny. Violet is near the entrance, impatiently listening to Mrs. Hudson compliment the prettiness of her dress. 

John is looking at him, so Sherlock projects a smile and says, “Of course, John.”

John nods, and as he sees Mike and his kids walk towards them, he goes ahead to intercept them. 

Sherlock intends to follow, but first he tells Mycroft, “Don’t leave.” Sherlock glances at him. “Please.” 

Mycroft eyes him seriously. “...I won’t. I promise you.” 

Sherlock nods. 

And then he goes along with John who says, “Mike, good to see you!” 

 

-

 

Sherlock sits at the top table with a glass of champagne in front of him and a spread of food on his plate. 

Their wedding looks exactly as John described it. It’s cosy more than grand. They arranged the space with smaller tables, every course has a child-friendly alternative, and there is a wide glass door opening into a closed off garden where the children are playing enthusiastically. 

There are people and laughter everywhere.

John, next to Sherlock, seems happy enough, receiving congratulations from person after person. 

Mrs. Hudson, on Sherlock’s other side, seems to have been wavering between crying and overjoyed smiling for most of the day. She is currently on her third glass of champagne and chatting with Lestrade. 

William is being handed from one person to the next and cooed over, to Mycroft’s mild annoyance - Sherlock can tell by the way his eye twitches. 

Violet has barely touched a chair. She’s been playing with all of the children, even Mike’s even though they’re far older than her. Sherlock checks – currently both Violet and Henry’s daughter are being carried by Mike’s oldest son as he runs back and forth through the garden. 

They’ve been eating for a while. Everyone is pleasantly buzzed and the evening sun is low outside, lighting the space in a warm glow. 

Then Mycroft throws Sherlock a look, stands, taps his glass and says, “If we can have your attention, please.” 

Mycroft never needs to ask twice. The whole room slowly falls quiet. 

Sherlock had assumed that Mycroft would say something short and be done with it, but Mrs. Hudson stands up next. She gives them all a smile and says, “I first met Sherlock when he ensured my ex-husband’s death.” 

If there was anyone in the room not listening, they are now. 

“He wasn’t the best of men, you see. And if he would have gotten out - well. Sherlock did that for me.” She seems pleased to say it. “And then, a few years later, he told me he was looking for a place to live. He came to see my flat with an army doctor, just back from the war.” 

Sherlock looks at her, feeling briefly nostalgic at the memory. 

“They were such silly boys – men, really. They were in love.” Mrs. Hudson looks at them. “I never doubted it.” 

John smiles. 

She talks on, “And then there was a lot of silly business. Two years apart... and another wedding.” 

John takes Sherlock’s hand and squeezes it. 

“But then John came back. And then there was little Violet. She’s such an angel, such a joy! And little William.” Mrs. Hudson faces the room and says, “They’ve given me so much. And I’m so happy to have been there for all of it.” 

She nods at them and sits down, then dabs her eyes. 

Sherlock reaches over and squeezes Mrs. Hudson’s hand, too. She smiles a watery smile. “Love you, my dear.” 

Sherlock blinks. 

And then, to Sherlock’s surprise - also John’s, he clearly didn’t know about this either – instead of Mycroft proposing the toast, Lestrade stands up. He says, “ _I_ met Sherlock when he showed up at a case, _high as a kite_ , and told us all who did it.” Lestrade grins, clearly in his element. “First, I thought he was bonkers. Then, when he wouldn’t stop talking, I threw him in jail. And then… well, turns out the bugger was right!” 

Several people in the crowd laugh. 

Sherlock briefly glances at Mycroft after the mention of his drug abuse, but Mycroft seems calmly intrigued. 

“First time I saw _John_ , Sherlock had dragged him onto a crime scene, and John was looking at him as if the sun shone out of his arse.” 

John laughs. “I did not!”

Lestrade says, “Yeah mate, you _did_ ,” which makes even more people laugh. He goes on, “But Sherlock, for as much as an absolute arse as he can be, seemed to… Well, it was mutual, wasn’t it?” Lestrade looks between them.

John says a soft, “It was.” 

“They were in love from that first case, it just took them a while to get here, but I think… Yeah, I always knew they would.” 

Lestrade gets a bit of applause. 

Molly stands up next, looks at them with an embarrassed look, and then says, “I had a bit of a crush on Sherlock.” 

Again, people laugh. 

She blushes, but continues on talking. “He was odd, you know? And I liked that.” She smiles at the memory. “He used to come in and whip the corpses. Or ask me for toes, or a bit of brain, and I thought, ‘this one’s crazy.’ But... I liked him.” 

She smiles again, at Sherlock now. 

“And then, one day, there was John. And Sherlock was just as rude to him, but he was… thoughtful, as well. And that’s when I knew, I think. That Sherlock loved John.” 

Molly glances at Mycroft. “And then, these past few years, they have made a family. Sherlock became a dad. He’s so good at it. And he’s happy, I think. And that’s the best thing anyone can be.” 

Molly sits down, still flushed from speaking.

Sherlock nods at her. _Thank you, Molly Hooper._

After her, Mike speaks, “John told me no one would want him for a flatmate. And I said that that was strange, because someone else had told me the exact same thing that day.” 

Henry Knight gets up and says, “The two of them, Sherlock... Sherlock Holmes was the man who _believed me_. They came out to Dartmoor and… they changed my life.” 

It goes on for a while. Nearly everyone in the room has a short story, or a simple, funny thing to say. Even John seems overwhelmed. And then, when they’ve gone around the room, Mycroft stands again. 

Mycroft looks at Sherlock and says, “I met Sherlock the day he was born. He was already on the loud side.” 

Everyone laughs.

Mycroft eyes John. “In the first conversation I had with John, I asked him whether we could expect a happy announcement by the end of the week.” 

John laughs at that. “God, you _did!_ I remember.” 

“I might have been mistaken in my estimate of the time period, but I was not incorrect concerning their intent.” Mycroft raises his glass. “The best of luck to you, Sherlock and John.” 

“To Sherlock and John!” Everyone toasts them. 

Then John stands, and Sherlock can feel an odd whirl in his stomach. 

“First of all, thank you all for coming. And for the speeches.” He waits for some of the murmurs to die down, and then goes on, “I’ve been so lucky, to get to marry this one.” 

John smiles an emotional smile at Sherlock. Then he says, “I was so alone. And I owe you, Sherlock, you crazy bastard… _Everything_. My life, actually.” John looks at him. “All of it.” 

Sherlock gets up and pulls him into a hug. _Me, too. John._

John laughs and says, “…I do have more.” But Sherlock holds on hard. 

Then he lets him go.

John faces the room again and says, “Because of him, because of this man, I found a home. And then, I found a family.” John looks at Mycroft with a smile and glances at William, currently with the nanny, then Violet outside. “I have more than I ever thought I would have. And I’m so…” He shakes his head. “So fucking lucky.” 

John looks at Sherlock and raises his glass. “So this is to you, Sherlock. My love.” John’s voice stills. “My life.” He seems emotional now, as he briefly looks down, then up again and adds, “And my husband.” 

Everyone applauds. 

There are some tears, Sherlock sees. Mrs. Hudson is once again weeping into her handkerchief. 

John sits down, takes Sherlock’s hand under the table, then leans close and asks, “Good?” 

Sherlock nods. “Very. You, what you… Good.” 

 

-

 

After the barrage of emotion stirred up by the speeches, the dessert course is served, and Sherlock is grateful for the reprieve. 

Violet runs in, and Sherlock pulls his chair back so she can sit on his lap. He hides behind the weight of her and asks, “Are you having fun?” 

“Yes!” She tells him enthusiastically, “Aurora is my new friend, and Jerry, and Ben, and Sarah.” 

Henry’s girl runs up as well. She has fine, brown hair tied up atop her head so it resembles a palm tree. “Hello,” Sherlock says to her. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Knight.”

She seems shy. But she does lean close to his knee, so Sherlock, after a moment, pulls her onto his lap, too. The two seem perfectly content there, babbling to each other. Violet bossily pulls the hair tie out of Aurora’s hair and messes with it, then proclaims, “There, all better.” 

Sherlock privately agrees. 

John says to him, “You pick up an extra kid?” 

Sherlock nods. “They’re friends, apparently.” That’s important, he imagines - Violet needs to have friends. Sherlock finds Henry’s eye in the crowd. Both Henry and his wife have noticed where their daughter is, and they smile at him. Sherlock nods back. Dartmoor is a relative distance away, but maybe they can arrange a play date at one point. 

After a while, both children run off again, and Sherlock tries the dessert – a dark chocolate moulleux chosen by John - but he’s not particularly hungry. It’s too crowded to even taste the chocolate. The various conversations are getting to him, as well. 

Mycroft meets his eye. A moment later, he gets up, collects a whining William from the nanny who has just made him a bottle, brings him over and asks, “Would you mind feeding him?” 

Sherlock could call him out on doing it on purpose – there are half a dozen people here who would gladly feed William - but he says, “Give him.” 

Sherlock shifts his chair to the side, crosses his legs, and supports William’s head while he feeds him the bottle. Sherlock can see the flash of the photographer, but he ignores it and looks down at William instead. 

Sherlock is close enough that he can hear John and Mycroft’s conversation when John asks Mycroft, “All of this isn’t your deal, either, is it?” 

Mycroft replies, “I cannot claim that it is, no. But I _am_ grateful to be here, John.” 

Sherlock can see John’s hand reach out and squeeze Mycroft’s leg. He feels calmer at it, too. 

Then John turns to him and asks, in a low voice, “You doing okay there?” 

Sherlock can feel the familiar weight of William in his arms. The buzz of the room is only a background noise to that and John’s presence. “Yes.” 

John grins. “Good. Better be ready for that dance soon then, because I’m wearing my good shoes, here.” He looks down and shows off the shiny loafers. 

Sherlock can feel a sudden block in his throat. John learned to dance for this day. John has been trying so hard, all to give him this. 

“Soon.” 

John smiles and grabs his glass of wine. “As soon as I’m drunk enough, it’s going to be great!” He winks. 

 

-

 

The sun has set over the garden, and the lights in the hall have been dimmed. The food is gone, and the staff have moved the tables to the sides. The band is setting up. 

Sherlock looks at Mycroft, who nods, then briefly disappears to his car. It takes a few minutes, but then Mycroft comes back carrying Sherlock’s violin case and the sheet music. 

Sherlock takes it, and John, who has never strayed far throughout the day, immediately notices. “Are you playing?!” He sounds excited. 

“Yes, John.” Sherlock sets it up. 

This time, it’s Sherlock himself who says, loudly enough to be heard, “We’re dancing soon. But before we do…” 

He looks at John. 

The room slowly falls silent, other than Violet’s clear shout, “Dancing!” 

“John, I made you a vow once.” 

John blinks and takes an unconscious step back. 

“I made it, thinking that it would be all that I would ever be allowed to vow to you.” Sherlock thought there would be nothing more, then. He had been sure of it. 

“I promised you my presence, always.” And it hurt so much. “But today, I am promising you all the rest of me as well. My body, my mind, everything I have to give in this world is yours.” It is. It has always been John’s. 

John blinks again, a bit taken aback. 

“I will give you all of me. Every day. In every way.”

John’s eyes seem to shine in the low light.

“That is my promise, John.” Sherlock picks up his violin. “And so is this.” 

He starts off with a long and painful note, dragging the room along with him into the aching sadness of those first weeks when John was back. Sherlock relives how much he tried, how much he _wanted_. And as much as there was pain last time, as much as there was such deep suffering, now there is delight. Sherlock plays as well as he possibly can. He leans into every note, every sharp expression of elation. He puts everything in it that he can’t say. 

Sherlock can see John’s enthralled look while he plays. 

And then, as he adds the newer notes and builds towards the end, Sherlock glances at Mycroft. He can see that Mycroft is listening attentively, and when the rhythm changes, he understands what Sherlock did within seconds. There is a third strand to the melody - Mycroft’s. Mycroft looks astonished at it. Sherlock smiles at him, _of course you are there, too_ , and then builds up to the crescendo. He allows the notes to blend together and weave the joyful, beautiful, entirely _right_ ending for all of them. He ends with a broken, hopeful note. 

The room is entirely quiet for a fraction of a moment, and then erupts into applause. “Amazing,” John says as he comes close and pulls him in. “That was gorgeous, wow, you composed that?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock looks up and meets Mycroft’s eyes. Mycroft gives him a slow, hesitant nod. 

Then Sherlock focuses on John again and says, “Now dance with me?” 

Their band has heard. They start playing the first notes of their opening dance. In the end, Sherlock chose a slow version of a classic, knowing John would think it romantic. 

_“Wise men say... only fools rush in…”_

John takes his hand and leads Sherlock to the dance floor. They fit together instantly. Sherlock puts a hand on John’s shoulder, one to his back, and it feels right. John leads comfortably, and they turn and sway. 

John sings along into Sherlock’s ear, _“And take my whole life, too.”_

And Sherlock forgets the buzz of everyone around them. All he can see is John’s eyes. John’s smile. All he can feel is John in his arms.

 _Forever_.

 

 

 

 

 


	123. (Mycroft)

 

 

Sherlock plays his violin composition for John, then eyes Mycroft at a specific part. The notes are lower than John’s – steady and repeating. 

Mycroft feels utterly taken aback when he recognises _himself_ in them. 

He can dissect the significance of John’s theme mingling with Sherlock’s and then his own, it is only that he scarcely dares to understand it. Especially when they are all raised together to a grand culmination. Mycroft, feeling stunned, applauds along with everyone else. It is more significant than anything Sherlock could have ever told him in words. 

And so is this entire wedding. 

Mycroft had always assumed that Sherlock might marry John one day. He had certainly hoped to be invited, should the occasion ever occur. But Mycroft had never once thought, or even dreamed, that he would be present like this. 

Mycroft saw Sherlock’s panic and promised him, _promised_ , that he would stay. Mycroft sat at the top table next to John, eating the food he himself helped select, drinking his own favourite champagne, and sharing an occasional remark or glance with both John and Sherlock. 

He has been congratulated himself on the wedding by Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade, a touch which Mycroft found peculiar and yet somewhat gratifying. 

If there ever was a public event where he needed to balance his role as Sherlock’s brother and bonded along with the one of being John’s partner and both their co-parent, this would be it. 

But it goes perfectly. 

Mycroft keeps an eye on Violet throughout the day. He makes certain that everyone treats William well. He knows at all times where Sherlock, John, Violet, and William are located. Mycroft keeps strict track of their wellbeing as he seeks any reaction to them as a family. 

He searches for the accusing looks and listens for the negative comments, but instead, he finds nothing but positivity. John and Sherlock have been clear about the children being theirs, but yet Mycroft cannot see the dreaded confusion in people’s eyes. There are no probing questions as to Violet’s parentage, or whispers about how William was conceived. 

Instead, it is a celebration of two people whose love and dedication to one another Mycroft has been privy to for a very long time, and he can feel himself observe it with clear pride. 

Mycroft finds that he would not have wanted to miss this for anything. 

 

-

 

Mycroft watches John and Sherlock move together on the dance floor, and he suspects that Sherlock has dreamed of this moment for years. After all that strife, all of Sherlock’s pain and doubts, they are here, dancing together, absorbed in one another. 

It is such a well-deserved moment, and Mycroft feels grateful to see them. 

Then the music changes, and everyone else is permitted onto the dance floor as well, so Mycroft allows a very eager Violet to go. She finds a partner in Mrs. Hudson, who is, despite the use of her cane, eager to dance as well. 

Then, Violet is distracted by her little friend of the evening – Aurora Knight, Mycroft has already taken note - and together they hold hands and spin in circles. 

Mrs. Hudson is asked to dance by John next, who claims, “...second dance is with the mother of the bride!” She seems both mildly offended and touched to be referred to as Sherlock’s mother, even if only in jest. 

Mycroft meets John’s eye and gives him a small smile. 

He is watching John charm her, which is why he does not immediately see it when Sherlock approaches. Sherlock is already by his side when he says, “Next dance is a waltz.” 

Mycroft does not understand his meaning until Sherlock holds out his hand. 

“You _cannot_ be serious.” 

Sherlock’s eyes gleam. “I am.” 

Mycroft has always disliked dancing. Although he is proficient after the sheer amount of practice he has put in, he does not actually move very well. Mycroft is only too aware that next to Sherlock’s talented form, his performance has always been subpar. 

But this is Sherlock’s wedding. Sherlock who included Mycroft in his composition, and who is now here looking at him, fully expecting him to value the gesture. So Mycroft sighs and gives in. He takes Sherlock’s hand. 

Sherlock leads him to the middle of the dance floor. It is early enough in the evening that this is not considered to be a whim - Mycroft is clearly the first person after John whom Sherlock chose, and they draw some curious looks immediately. Mycroft is aware of them, but he ignores it. He allows Sherlock to lead. 

They have done this so very often in the past that the muscle memory seems to take over. Mycroft finds himself following the steps without much conscious effort. 

Sherlock tells him, as they move through the room, “Dancing lessons paid off after all.” He glances at him. “She’d have been happy.”

 _She_. Mummy insisted on the lessons. Sherlock loved them, while Mycroft decidedly did not. 

Mycroft says, “She would have been deeply dissatisfied with both of us.” Having children, bonding, this whole wedding - the three of them would have horrified her. 

Sherlock slowly grins at him. “ _I know_.” 

Mycroft smiles as well, and then follows Sherlock in a particularly complicated turn. _Yes, thank you, Mother. Look at us dance now_. Mycroft feels a wry satisfaction at it. 

As the waltz ends, Mycroft takes a bow. Sherlock does as well, and they receive a scattering of applause. Molly Hooper tells them, “Wow, that was so good!” Mrs. Hudson says, “I never knew you were such a great dancer too, Mr. Holmes!” 

She is exaggerating, but Mycroft takes it as the compliment she intends. “Thank you.”

 

-

 

Sherlock drifts back over to John, so Mycroft checks on William - who is being comforted expertly by the nanny - and takes him to the bathroom for a nappy change. 

Mycroft is escaping, yes, but only briefly. 

He enjoys the fresher air in the corridor as the music fades behind him. William is uneasy in his arms as well. He is probably over stimulated by the noise, as well as the inexperienced but well-meant coddling he has received from various people today. Mycroft can empathise. He feels somewhat shaken up by the dance with Sherlock, as well as hearing Sherlock’s composition and deducing its heartfelt meaning. 

Mycroft catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he walks into the bathroom. He is dressed in a sharply tailored suit, holding William, with the nappy bag hanging from his shoulder. He looks older, these days. Tired. But he can see the mild flush on his cheeks from dancing, as well as deduce the subtle signs to his suit that he has been wearing it all day whilst also holding children. 

As he changes William, Mycroft considers how his image has always been his strongest currency. For many years, he did not care to be valued for anything other than his cold rationality and superb intelligence. 

His reputation of complete invulnerability was diminished by having children. By allowing Sherlock to bond to him, as well. By loving John. With every step Mycroft has taken closer to them, he has made himself appear more human and more approachable. But he can see the strength in those steps as well. 

Mycroft has thought of Sherlock and John as brave, at times. 

He rarely has seen himself as such. 

Mycroft changes William and takes him back inside. He leaves him with Molly Hooper, who is eager to take him for a minute, and then finds John, who is talking to Mr. Knight and Greg Lestrade. 

Mycroft joins them at a lull in the conversation and asks, calmly, he believes, “John, would you care to dance?” 

John’s eyes widen. “Yeah! Yes, I’ll… Yeah.” 

Mycroft leads him to the dance floor, already analysing the message it might send. Mycroft is Sherlock’s brother, so therefore it is not entirely improper to dance with his newly minted brother-in-law. Of course, that is ignoring the fact that John has just married Mycroft’s bonded. There are no social conventions for that, as far as Mycroft is aware. 

Never mind the fact that Mycroft has a sexual relationship with John, and that they have a biological child together. 

John puts his arms around him and says, “You better be ready for me to step on those expensive shoes.” 

Mycroft can feel some of his doubts fall away when John grins at him. John seems genuinely pleased to have been asked, at least. They dance, and for all of John’s claims that he is a bad dancer, he is not truly. He has a decent feel for the rhythm, and they make it work well enough. 

With a warm glow in his eyes, John says, “Didn’t think you’d want to! Otherwise I’d have asked you myself.” 

“You did ask me for a dance, several weeks ago.” _It has merely taken me this long to gather the courage._

John grins, then says, “Then let me ask for one more thing.” John puts a hand on Mycroft’s neck and whispers, “Kiss me?” 

Mycroft is very much aware that they are not alone. But in the busy swirl of the dance floor, the low lights, and the sheer nature of the moment... Mycroft briefly kisses John. The touch of John’s lips does not feel sinful. Just pleasant, full of kindness and heat. 

John holds him closer as they move together. 

Mycroft can feel it rush through him. As they turn, he looks over John’s shoulder and finds Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock gives them a smile, then turns to Molly Hooper and takes William. 

Just like that. 

Mycroft dances with John in his arms for a few more minutes, and when the music ends and they part, he even feels some sadness at it. He has not enjoyed a dance in so very long. And tonight, Mycroft has had two. 

John touches his back for a moment more, then says, “Right, going to check on my husband.” 

“Of course.” 

Mycroft himself finds Violet, who is clearly starting to lag in energy but refuses to acknowledge it. When she sees him coming, she immediately tells him, “I’m _not_ tired! Violet is not going to bed! No! I’m dancing! _Dancing!_ ” 

“I see. Well, far be it from me to stop you.” Mycroft leaves her to it. 

 

-

 

A good half an hour later, Mycroft escapes a conversation with a friend of Mrs. Hudson’s and circles back to see John pulled into a discussion with several guests, laughing. Sherlock is next to him, but he seems uninvolved in the conversation.

Mycroft walks to Sherlock, stands by his side, and says, “Violet is going to crash soon, I imagine.” 

Sherlock nods at him. He seems fine, but he tilts his head towards the garden. 

Mycroft follows him, instantly somewhat worried. Is Sherlock irritated about the kiss? Of course, he could very well be. It is one thing to kiss in private, quite another to do so at their wedding. 

When they step outside, Mycroft is ready to apologise for his behaviour, but Sherlock pulls him closer and nuzzles his neck. Mycroft allows him to bond. Even if it is somewhat awkward standing up like this, the familiar warmth is a comfort to Mycroft, as well. 

After a few moments, Sherlock mumbles, “Thanks.” 

Mycroft turns and says, cautiously, “If this is about John and myself…”

“Hm?” Sherlock frowns. “Don’t be stupid.” He looks back at the party. They can both hear the music bouncing through the glass doors. 

He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to get back, so Mycroft risks asking him, “Has it been the day you wished for?” He is genuinely curious. Was all the detailed planning worth it? 

Sherlock slowly smiles. “He’s mine now. It’s worth everything.” 

Mycroft nods. He can imagine that is true. 

The glass doors behind them open, spilling out some of the music. They turn to see John. “Hi there.” John puts an arm around Sherlock and says, “You know, I can throw them all out if you’re both sick of it.” 

Mycroft can feel a small smile on his lips. 

Sherlock says, “No, you owe me at least one more dance, John.” 

John gives Mycroft a look. “You hear that? _My husband_ here wants to take me for another spin.” 

Mycroft smiles at John’s eagerness at using the word ‘husband’. He seems to be taken with the novelty it. 

They all go back, and Mycroft watches John and Sherlock dance together. 

Then he intercepts Violet who is crying about cocktail napkins that she wants to tear into pieces, only the pieces are too small already and can’t be made bigger again – in Mycroft’s experience, her tantrums when she is this exhausted do not necessarily make any logical sense. Mycroft lifts her into his arms, motions the nanny, and together they bring Violet up to her hotel room. 

The nanny offers, “I can do it, if you’d like to go back, sir,” but Mycroft undresses Violet himself and tells her a story before putting her to bed in the hotel room. It is already unfamiliar enough for her. 

The nanny will stay here with Violet throughout the night, and as Mycroft leaves, Violet is still claiming, while on the verge of stubborn tears, “I’m _not_ tired! I can go _dancing!_ ”

Mycroft smiles as he hears it. 

 

-

 

He gradually makes his way back downstairs, to find John and Sherlock entwined in a slow dance in the middle of the dance floor. 

It takes Mycroft a moment before he realises that they are holding William as well. Sherlock has put him in the sling and is carrying him. There are other couples dancing, swaying to the music. 

Mycroft, assured that they are perfectly fine without him, finds a glass of wine and takes a seat. He sits back and takes in the atmosphere. Like Violet, he is really quite tired. 

After a few minutes, Greg Lestrade comes to sit by him. He is also clutching a drink. “You doing all right?” 

Mycroft says, automatically, “I believe it has been the day they wished for.” 

“I meant more with watching them, you know…” Lestrade looks at the dance floor. 

William must be asleep, strapped to Sherlock as he is and held between the warmth of their bodies.

“It’s probably hard, yeah? Sherlock’s your bonded, and John, seeing them get married…” Lestrade seems unsure of how to best finish his statement. 

Mycroft assumes that Lestrade is attempting to offer his sympathy for the situation, but he is not entirely certain what to answer. Violet is in bed, safe and sound. William is right there, being included in what must be one of the most significant moments of John’s and Sherlock’s relationship. Mycroft is not certain his own emotional state is relevant, or even existent at this moment. 

Mycroft is saved from replying when Molly Hooper comes over to ask her husband, “You want to go to bed? My feet hurt.” 

Lestrade gets up. “Yeah, I’m beat, too…” He gives Mycroft a last look as they are going. “’Night.” 

Mycroft replies, “Good night to both of you.” 

The dance floor is emptying now. Mycroft had not intended to stay until the very end - he had assumed he would go to bed along with the children. But William is still here, and he _had_ promised Sherlock that he would stay, so he does just that. 

When a waiter comes over, Mycroft accepts another drink. It is not unpleasant to sit here and watch them. Alcohol always makes him somewhat maudlin, but if there ever was a moment where such a thing was allowed, Mycroft imagines that this would be it. 

The music dies, slowly. 

John and Sherlock step apart and say their goodbyes to the few people still around. John spots him, and Mycroft gets up and walks over to them. 

“God, I’m tired,” John says.

Sherlock tells him, “William has been asleep for around fifty minutes.” Mycroft nods. 

He collects William’s nappy bag, then follows them out to the corridor and upstairs. 

They meet some more people and accept the last congratulations. If it is at all strange that Mycroft would still be here and going up with them on their wedding night, he believes that to be negated by the fact that Sherlock still has William. 

Mycroft will take him to his own room, of course. He has noticed the possessive hand John has on Sherlock’s lower back and the fatigued, but sure way they move together. Mycroft will make himself scarce as soon as possible - John and Sherlock deserve their privacy.

They reach the door of John and Sherlock’s suite, and Mycroft walks in with them only in order to follow Sherlock who is taking William out of the sling. But John closes the door behind them. Then John looks at Sherlock, gets a nod from him, and Mycroft feels briefly uneasy. 

John takes Mycroft’s hand.

Mycroft lets him, feeling bewildered. “Yes?” 

John says, “Mycroft... Holmes.” He laughs a bit. “Why don’t you have any middle names?” 

Sherlock fills in. “Mummy didn’t think it was necessary for an omega.” 

“...Right. “ John eyes him again.

Mycroft wonders how much John has had to drink. He doesn’t seem to be overly drunk. 

“Sherlock and I are married now.” It makes John smile to even say it. “And I know you’re not… You might not want this, which is why I’m not one knee here, but...” John takes a small box out of his pocket.

Mycroft can feel a stab of disbelief. _No._

John glances at Sherlock, who is still holding William, and then hands Mycroft the box. “If you want it, I… Both of us. We want to be married to you, too.” 

Sherlock adds, “We do.” 

The words make Mycroft feel strangely warm. 

John wraps his hand over Mycroft’s and makes him hold the box more securely. “You don’t have to say anything now, but just think about it?” 

Mycroft does not reply. The words seem to pound through his head. 

Sherlock hands him a sleeping William, and Mycroft takes him in his arms, says, “Good night.” and walks out of the room, still feeling rather dazed.

He enters his own room and settles William into the crib the hotel staff have placed here for him. 

Then, Mycroft sits down on the bed and opens the box. As expected, it is a ring. A gold band, exactly the same as the ones Sherlock and John exchanged today. On the inside, it says only the date, nothing more. It did not for their rings, either - Mycroft had wondered at that choice. 

Mycroft already wears a ring on his right hand daily. He chose to wear it at a certain point in his career where he could not advance further as an omega without being faced with the prejudice that he was looking for an alpha. Then, he had bought one and worn it as a sign of a broken bond or a lost marriage. 

It was meaningless. Simply theatre. 

Mycroft takes if off and puts it on the bed. He holds John and Sherlock’s ring in the palm of his hand. This would not be meaningless at all, he is aware. 

He carefully slides it over the ring finger of his left hand.

 

 

 

 

 


	124. (John)

 

 

John watches Mycroft walk away, then closes the door and focuses on Sherlock. “You think that went okay?”

Sherlock falls down onto the bed. “He’ll say yes.” 

“You think so?” John feels pretty much dead on his feet. His back aches, his feet throb, and he smells - John thinks he does, anyway - like booze and food and sweat. John lets himself fall down onto the bed next to Sherlock.

Sherlock rolls close to him and tucks his chin into the hollow of John’s shoulder. “Hm.” 

John laughs, tiredly. “God, I’m done.” He glances at Sherlock and says, “No idea how people still have sex after this.” 

He’s not kidding, he’s _beat_. The day feels like it’s been going on for forever. 

Sherlock mumbles into John’s ear, “Only forty-eight percent of newlyweds report having sex on their wedding night.” 

“Well, we’re with the majority for once, then.” John looks up at the ceiling - he’s not sure he ever wants to get up again. But his mouth tastes like wine, and his bladder is protesting. 

John drags himself up. He goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, and splashes some water over his face. He looks pretty shit, really. But he feels giddy underneath, too. It’s that type of fatigue that feels unreal. 

Sherlock walks in and starts stripping. Only down to his underwear, but John still glances at him in the mirror. No reason not to appreciate the view, right? But to be honest, even if Sherlock was up for it, John’s not sure he could go for it right now. 

John slides in between the cool sheets of the hotel bed, and Sherlock joins him, turning off the lights as he goes. John can still hear the whine of the music in his ears. His body feels like it’s moving without him doing a thing. 

He takes Sherlock’s hand and tangles their fingers. “You happy?” John feels vulnerable for a moment, asking that in the dark. _We did it now, we got married. Is this what you wanted?_

“Yes.” Sherlock says. 

“Me, too.” John’s not lying. He is happy. It was _their_ wedding. So different than the last one. This is so different than his wedding night with Mary was, too. John was pretending then. Now, he feels as if there’s no filter between who he really is and what he’s doing. Or who he is being. 

John muses, “No attempted murder this time though. Sorry if it was a tad boring for you.” 

Sherlock huffs out a laugh. “It would have interfered with the schedule.” 

“Hm, true.” John laughs. Then he thinks about it. “I _did_ marry you first, then ask your brother to marry me on our wedding night. That’s probably a record of sorts.” That ring had been burning a hole in his pocket the whole evening. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock says it seriously.

“What, for asking him?” The ring had been Sherlock’s idea, but John had agreed to it straight away. “It was... yeah, it was good, right?” The right thing to do. It felt like it, anyway. “It’s what you wanted, too?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock turns on the bed, then says, “I had to watch, last time. When you got married.” Sherlock takes a breath. “He needed that.” 

Oh... Oh shit, _of course_. Sherlock imagined himself in Mycroft’s place and thought of what it might feel like. John turns to him, in the dark, “Sherlock…”

“It’s fine.” 

“No, no it’s not. I regretted marrying her the second I did it. I knew it when I looked at you. That night? I _knew_ it should have been you.” John’s never said that, has he? He can’t remember if he’s ever even told Sherlock. “I only stayed with her after you came back because I thought that that’s what I needed to do. Not because…” John takes a breath. “I wanted you more. Always, really.” He thinks about it. “From the moment I met you.” 

Sherlock’s hand in his goes very still. 

Then Sherlock says, his voice low in the dark. “I wanted you too, John. I never stopped wanting you.”

“I know.” John reaches out, and Sherlock allows the hug, for just a moment. 

Then they let go, and John says, “Well, I don’t think we can make today any more emotional, Jesus.” He feels wrung out, like bits have been pulled out of him today, again and again. 

“Hm, we could always have sex so we don’t have to communicate.” It’s clear in Sherlock’s tone that he is joking. “I believe that’s what _normal people_ do.”

John laughs. “Yeah, tough shit, I’m too tired.” 

Sherlock laughs, too. Then he mumbles, “Good night, John.” 

John lets go of Sherlock’s hand, rolls and lies a bit more comfortable on the too-fluffy pillow. “Hm, you too.”

 

-

 

John wakes up when Sherlock sneaks out of bed. John sees him walk past him in the half-lit bedroom through blurry eyes. 

John closes his eyes again. 

He wakes up for the second time what feels like hours later. Sherlock is sitting up on the bed, busily typing away on his phone with his hair wrapped in a towel and the smell of shampoo wafting into the room. “Morning, John.” 

“Hmpph.” John hides under the covers. _Headache_. He didn’t drink that much, did he? He didn’t feel particularly drunk anyway. Maybe a bit buzzed. 

He slowly sits up. “Do I have time to shower?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “We said it would be a free brunch, that’s anywhere between ten and one.” 

John gets up and takes a hot shower, which wakes him up properly. Strange, he doesn’t actually feel like a newlywed. Maybe it hasn’t hit him yet. So far, it just feels like they had a good party, and now there’s a ring involved. A ring that he forgot to take off to wash, so now he’s rubbing shower gel over himself with it still on.

John hasn’t worn a wedding ring in a few years, now. 

He likes this one much more than the last. 

John dresses in the ‘casual’ outfit Sherlock insisted he’d buy and bring along for their morning-after-the-wedding. They didn’t really want to make a big deal out of it, though. Any of the guests who are still here can have brunch when they feel like it. They can leave when they feel like it, too. 

Sherlock looks stunning in his outfit. It’s a dark blue suit, one John’s never seen before, and it makes him look entirely delicious. As the door locks behind them and they head for the stairs, John says, “Now how on earth did I get _you?_ ” 

Sherlock turns to him and says, “You always had me, John.” 

Which is ridiculously romantic, so John takes his hand, and that’s how they walk into the space downstairs - hand in hand, to a small scattering of applause. It’s been turned back into a much more casual dining space. There are still some kids playing in the garden, and a few groups of people eating. There’s no one around they know very well, so Sherlock picks an empty table by the window. John’s not bothered by that at all. They can keep it low-key now. 

They’re halfway through idly eating some melon and prosciutto – it’s really good, but John’s just not that hungry - when Mycroft comes in with the kids. He lets Violet run to them, and she immediately finds Sherlock and climbs onto his lap. “I had a bath and it had bubbles!” 

John stands to take William and help Mycroft with the bag. 

He looks at Mycroft’s hand just because he wants to know if... There _is_ a glint of gold on Mycroft’s ring finger. His left. John looks up at him. 

_He wore the ring._

Mycroft glances at Sherlock, makes certain he hears, too, and says, “I believe traditionally the words would be, ‘I do.’”

 _Jesus!_ John looks back at Sherlock, sees his pleased smile, grins, and then pulls Mycroft in for a kiss. It’s short, with William wriggling between them, but no less heartfelt because _god!_

Sherlock says, behind him, “Good.” 

It’s with enough feeling John turns around, and he catches the smile Sherlock gives Mycroft. 

Mycroft seems a tad emotional. He coughs to hide it. 

Then Violet picks a slice of melon from Sherlock’s plate and takes a bite out of it, and Mycroft says. “Violet, no. You can have a plate of your own.” 

He sits down next to John, and then Sherlock asks how Violet slept, and William cries so John goes to ask the staff to heat up water for a bottle, and then Violet spills a full glass of orange juice onto the white linen tablecloth.

By the time John returns, the spill has been dealt with, but now Violet is yelling to tell them more about her bath and William needs his bottle. 

Half an hour later, John can look down the table to see Mrs. Hudson laughing, clearly recovered enough from the dancing to be having a morning Bloody Mary. Henry and Louise have joined them, mainly so Violet and Aurora can play again. Greg and Molly are here - they’ve pulled up chairs. Mike and his family sit one table over. 

It’s like it’s the wedding all over. A bit quieter, since everyone is a tad worse for wear, but there’s no less laughter. Everyone seems to be in a good mood. 

John looks at all of them. Then at Mycroft, sitting next to him. John puts a hand on Mycroft’s leg and says, “Married life isn’t too bad so far, I think.” _In case you were wondering._

Mycroft says, “Considering all you have done is eat, drink, and dance, I would assume so.” But he gives him a small smile. 

Then he puts his hand over John’s, just for a moment. It feels so good that John can’t stop smiling. 

They all load up the cars together, and then head home. 

Married, now.

 

 

 

 

 


	125. (Sherlock)

 

 

The wedding changed something. 

Sherlock had always wondered whether there would be a real, tangible difference between ‘my partner John’ and ‘my husband John’. He doubted there really was that much to be found in the socially accepted terminology, or in the ritual itself. It seemed rather naive to assume that marriage would genuinely make a difference. 

But it did. He can still feel their promises reverberate between them. 

Sherlock had already made that vow to John of course, at John’s first wedding. And Sherlock already gave that bond to Mycroft, in the hospital when Mycroft was pregnant with Violet and they bonded in an attempt to save her. In Sherlock’s mind and Sherlock’s body, it was already there. It has been for years. He already would have given everything for John. He already felt that connection to Mycroft. 

But now, they returned it. 

John promised, John _vowed_ that he would be here for forever. And Mycroft accepted the ring and wore it. Sherlock can feel a deep sense of fulfilment whenever he thinks of it. Like the old scarred bite mark on Mycroft’s neck from when they first bonded, Sherlock wants that ring to be there. Just like he wants Violet and William close to him. They all belong here. 

John is different, in a way. John has always been different, but Sherlock has settled into the wild waves of emotion he feels around John. John’s scent lingers in their bed. John’s presence is a constant, and John’s laughter rings through 221b daily. Sherlock would promise John everything possible in the entire world. He would live and die for him, and he has done so for years already. But he is allowed to, now. 

For as long as they live. 

 

-

 

There are flowers everywhere. They received a grand total of twenty-three bouquets as gifts, and they are mostly annoyingly _in the way_. After a day, Sherlock and John bring them all down to Mrs. Hudson’s. As a result, her kitchen looks like a flower shop and she invites her knitting group around for tea just to see it. 

They donate the other useless gifts to a homeless shelter – two mixers, a microwave, three kettles. Sherlock keeps some of the kitchen appliances back for experiments as well. 

There _are_ some gifts he did appreciate, most prominently among them a beautiful Victorian lab kit from Molly and Lestrade. Sherlock plans to repeat some old tests and compare the results with modern-day equipment. John received his own website domain for his blog from them. And they gifted Mycroft an expensive bottle of whisky. Sherlock saw Mycroft’s surprise at being presented with anything at all, but Sherlock made sure to nod at Molly. Yes. She was right to do that. 

Sherlock has seen Mycroft’s gift to them as well - Mycroft cancelled every single expense for the wedding from Sherlock and John’s accounts and, presumably, paid them out of his own account instead. Sherlock hasn’t said a thing about it, and he’s not sure if John will ever notice, of if he will just assume it all paid. 

It doesn’t matter. 

Violet received a gift of her own for the wedding also. Mike and his family gave her a small red bike with training wheels. Mike said, “We didn’t know what else to get you two, but I know how quickly they grow out of these.” 

They take Violet out on it the day after. She’s a bit uneasy at first, but as they hold her she gets the hang of not actually pedalling, but just using her legs to propel herself forward. Within twenty minutes, she’s speeding over the pavement, hitting people’s kneecaps, and nearly driving herself into Regent Park’s lake. 

John makes the executive decision to only let her ride it when there are at least two adults around to watch her. 

 

-

 

The wedding photographer uploads the images from the wedding into a private folder so they can choose their favourites. There are over three thousand pictures. John claims to like most, and then grows bored of looking through them, but Sherlock doesn’t at all. Late at night, he takes his laptop with him on the sofa while William sleeps and studies every single image. 

Sherlock appreciates the chance to observe the details that he missed on the day itself. 

There is a picture of John when he is getting out of the police car with Lestrade and greeting people – John’s left hand is balled into a nervous fist. A picture of Lestrade bent towards John with concern in his eyes. 

Mycroft’s stern gaze right into the camera as he is lifting Violet out of his car. 

Mrs. Hudson’s proud smile as she lines up outside the church. Violet’s pure glee as she throws the flower petals around, with a whole church full of smiling faces around her. Molly’s expression somewhere between nerves, embarrassment, and happiness. 

Sherlock studies his own face when he is walking up to the altar. He seems strong, there. He doesn’t remember feeling it. 

There is a picture of John looking at him during the vows. Then a close-up of their hands, held together as they exchange the rings. John is laughing brightly, seemingly elated. 

Their kiss. Sherlock looks it for a long time - his own face is tilted to John’s and his eyes are closed. 

The pictures when they exit the church are a blur of rose petals. John looks happy. 

The next one is when they just arrived at the party location. It’s one of Sherlock’s favourites - the line of Mycroft’s back is purposely blocking the camera, Sherlock is leaning in close, and John is turned towards both of them as well. None of their faces are in focus, but they seem intimate. Drawn close. 

Then there is a succession of guests. Guests arriving, guests sitting down, guests eating. Sherlock takes in endless details about their dress and thoughts at the time. 

There is a picture of Sherlock with both Violet and Aurora on his lap. Violet is playing with Aurora’s hair, and John is leaning over to say something to them. 

After that, there is a picture that John picked as his favourite - it’s a shot of Sherlock turned away as he feeds William. The line of his arm around William looks protective, Sherlock thinks. There is a shot from the same scene from further away as well, the bright, populated mess of the party, and then Sherlock and William to the side as a separate, quiet tableau. 

There is a picture of John and Mycroft leaned close together, caught in a moment of whispered amusement. The shot after that is Mycroft scowling at the camera. 

There is a whole series of Sherlock playing the violin, but Sherlock clicks through those quickly - he does not need to see his own face. There is one of John looking at him, clearly emotional. And another where Mycroft is caught in the lower corner of the image behind Sherlock’s shoulder with an intrigued expression. 

Then their first dance. Sherlock has picked at least ten pictures he wants to keep of it. John laughing. John whispering into his ear. A close-up of their clasped hands. 

There are hundreds of pictures of the guests dancing. One of Lestrade and Molly kissing that Sherlock wants to frame and give to them as a gift. Another one of Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, which is a moment Sherlock missed, but they are both clearly rather intoxicated - Mrs. Hudson is waving her cane as they dance together and laugh. There are plenty of Violet, playing and dancing between everyone else. There are a few of Mycroft and Sherlock dancing, two tall figures in the middle of the dance floor with a respectable space around them. There is only one shot of John and Mycroft dancing later in the evening. It is taken from a fair distance, but the closeness between them is clear. 

Sherlock sees a lot of shots of William on everyone’s laps. There is one of Mycroft with William, the changing bag over his shoulder, and a protective hand against William’s back. 

As the night goes on, the pictures are all less posed, the faces more flushed, and the smiles larger. 

The last ones are of Sherlock and John dancing with William between them. The lights around them leave long trails of exposure on the image. They both seem relaxed. There is one where Mycroft is in the background, watching them with an unreadable expression. Sherlock studies it for a long time 

He looks up when he hears a noise. John is padding out of the bedroom on bare feet. 

John checks on William, then comes closer and sits next to him on the sofa. “You selecting pictures again?” John sees the picture and says, “I love that one, too.” John’s finger traces Mycroft’s near-hidden face. “Hard to get him on camera, isn’t it?” 

Yes, Mycroft despises posing for pictures. He always has. Sherlock notes, “We don’t have a single image with the five of us.” 

“Oh shit, that’s right!” John seems to regret that, as well. “We can ask him to take a couple here, maybe? We really should have one.” 

“We can set up a camera with a timer and take one without him knowing.” 

“Oh, he’s gonna _love_ that when he finds out.” John grins. 

Sherlock eyes the bookcase across from the sofa. It should be easy enough to arrange.

John leans closer and runs his nose by Sherlock’s jaw, then kisses him there, gently. “You smell nice.” He smiles. “…My husband.” 

John has been using any excuse to call him that. Sherlock would think it embarrassing, if it didn’t find it mildly thrilling to hear it as well. He leans closer to John and nuzzles his neck. John laughs. 

They stay on the sofa like that, talking, touching, and looking at the pictures, until William wakes and cries for his nightly bottle. They feed him together. 

 

-

 

Sherlock is reviewing a police file about a Russian hacker - not exactly his area of expertise, but he finds the discrepancies interesting - when Mycroft walks in. John asked him to stay for dinner. And Mycroft has predictably grown a lot more tolerant now that he’s having sex again, because he agreed to it. 

“John’s still at the shop. He took Violet.”

Mycroft hangs his coat up. “How is William?” 

Sherlock glances at William - he’s lying on Violet’s old playmat on the floor. He’s not rolling over yet, but he likes to lie there and bat at the toys above him. “He cried for approximately forty minutes after his morning bottle. Cramps again, I believe. John rubbed his stomach.” 

Mycroft sits on the sofa, and Sherlock moves from his own chair to sit next to him. He leans his face to Mycroft’s neck, searches for his scent there, and then bonds to him, feeling a strong tug of _right_. 

A few minutes later, John walks in, carrying the shopping. “Hi. Glad you’re here.” He detours to press a quick kiss to Mycroft’s lips, to Mycroft’s obvious surprise. Sherlock grins at him. 

Violet races to press a sloppy kiss onto William’s cheek. “My brother!” Then she crawls up onto the sofa to join them. 

“Hello, my dear.” Mycroft lifts her onto his lap. She’s smacking around a sweet. “What are you eating?” 

John says, “Yeah, I know, _sugar_. But they were handing them out.” John starts unloading the bags of shopping, and Violet takes both Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s hands and plays with them. John raises his voice, “If you think I’m just going to cook dinner by myself for the two of you, you’ve got another one coming, you know that, right?” 

Sherlock shares a look with Mycroft. He’s not sure Mycroft has ever voluntarily cooked a meal in his life. Mycroft seems pained. “Would you like us to help?” 

Sherlock _can_ cook, actually. He just doesn’t _like_ to. “Can’t we just order in?” 

And that is how, thirty minutes later, they are all seated on the sofa, eating from a selection of bags on the living room table. 

Mycroft gamely eats noodles from a cardboard box. John has Violet on his lap, and he is teaching her to use chopsticks while at the same time feeding her bites of assorted vegetables. Sherlock has William in one arm, and he’s one-handedly eating pieces of tofu. Occasionally he feeds one to John, too, which makes Mycroft roll his eyes at him until Sherlock tries to feed him one in retaliation. 

And that’s when the flash goes off. 

John later claims that the picture is ridiculous, with a strange note of pride in his voice. They have it printed and framed the very next day and hang it up in the living room, right above the sofa. Mycroft receives a copy, too, and according to John, he keeps it on the desk in his library. Mrs. Hudson puts hers in a nice frame in her kitchen. Sherlock decides to email a copy to Molly, and one to Lestrade.

He sends one to Father as well. 

Sherlock looks at the picture, hanging in their living room, where everyone can see. He looks at their rings, all of it… it’s _evidence_. Evidence that he is not alone. That he is wanted and needed, every single day. Not only by Violet and William, but by Mycroft and John as well. 

Sherlock keeps them all close, and they keep him close in return. 

They do.

 

 

 

 

 


	126. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft returns to work immediately after the post-wedding brunch. 

He had instructed Anthea to only contact him during the wedding if there was an issue of the utmost importance. She had not. And because of it, he had a full day to focus solely on his family. Mycroft is exceedingly glad that he was able to do so. 

He is rapidly reading through the latest developments in their most critical file - it is rather concerning how volatile North Korea has become lately - when Anthea comes in, carrying the update on Russia she just received, and stills. 

Mycroft looks up. 

Her eyes linger on his hand and the ring there for a fraction of a second before she asks, “Was it a successful wedding, sir?” 

Mycroft gives her a polite smile. It was futile to assume that Anthea would _not_ notice, she is entirely too observant. But she will be discreet with what she has learned, he is certain of it. “It went well.” 

Anthea nods, then gives him the file. 

Mycroft accepts it and risks, “Were you successful in spending time with your partner as well?” He is fully aware of what he is admitting to with his phrasing. 

Anthea is not taken aback by it, but she seems to hesitate before answering. “I was.” There is a brief moment of doubt, which is saying a lot for her. “I am not entirely sure that I can combine such a relationship with work, however. Children require a lot of care. I would need to... be present.” 

Mycroft remembers Anthea carelessly dating omega after omega and expecting them to leave as soon as they became uninteresting. This woman must be entirely different to her if she is thinking of her in these terms. 

“It is difficult, yes.” Mycroft can admit that much. Anthea works even more hours than he does. Her main responsibility is her ability to be constantly on call, always available no matter what. “But not impossible, I believe.” Mycroft never would have told her this years ago. He never would have believed for a moment that people like them could do this, either. But much has changed. Mycroft glances at his brand new wedding ring and swallows, very much aware of the sheer impossibility of what he is putting into words. “I am quite content, myself.”

Anthea gives him a smile. Then, as she turns away to continue working, she says, clearly, “Congratulations on your wedding, sir.” She glances back at him. 

Mycroft could deny it if he wanted to. But then he suspects that Anthea has known the truth for a very long time already, so he calmly replies, “Thank you.” 

He turns back to the work - they really cannot afford to linger like this, not during working hours. But he can feel the conversation settle something. Mycroft has hesitated to acknowledge his connection to Sherlock and John, but every time he does admit to it, he feels a quiet relief. 

There is fear in showing who he is, but there also seems to be a reward in doing so. 

Mycroft considers that perhaps that is a truth he previously did not recognise. 

 

-

 

Mycroft texts John, “When would you like to spend the night this week? M” 

They have yet to settle into any sort of routine again. The wedding meant that it was all rather frenzied, and their time together has felt restricted. Mycroft would rather take his time in undressing John and reconnecting with his body. Mycroft is aware that that means that John will want the same from him, and he has not yet felt entirely comfortable with that idea. But he will. 

If he can wear a ring for them, Mycroft assumes there is very little that he cannot do. 

John replies, “I talked to Sherlock, he said tonight is okay if you want? He’ll keep William, we take Violet? J” 

Mycroft is already replying before he even considers how strange it truly is to receive this text. How impossible, that they are dividing childcare and nights spent between them as if that is something that can be done so easily. And yet it is. Mycroft feels secure in the knowledge that John will indeed come over, and that Sherlock is perfectly happy to care for William. 

It is only his own belief in this that still shocks Mycroft. Not that it is happening, but that he is slowly but surely settling into the thought of its continuity. Perhaps it is because they are being clear about what they are asking. They all have committed to this, after all. To each other. Mycroft cannot define it precisely, only that it no longer feels like a choice that he is ill-equipped to make. 

Or like a choice at all. After all, he has decided. 

He has accepted the ring and everything that comes with it. 

 

-

 

That evening, John is in Mycroft’s bed. Fully naked. 

John had undressed without a second thought, but Mycroft did not. The light in the room is low, which was a conscious choice, but even then, Mycroft is still wearing his shirt as he rolls over John, lines their erections up, and gives a teasing thrust against John’s cock. John laughs, his eyes bright with joy. 

Mycroft is aware that John would continue this just as eagerly if Mycroft were to keep his remaining clothing on, but he starts on his shirt buttons, trapped between them. Mycroft finishes the row of buttons, opens his shirt, shrugs it off, and then removes his undershirt. He gradually presses his naked body to John’s, and he is considering the feeling of skin against skin - he has missed this - when John asks, “You know what I was thinking?”

Of course Mycroft does not. “I am still not a mind reader, John. Although I must admit that I have been trying to perfect the technique for years.” 

John, predictably, smiles at that. Mycroft watches him, and ah, how is it that he can be filled with so much delight at something so simple? They are only two middle-aged men in bed together, it has little right to feel this young and new between them. 

“I was _thinking_ ,” John says as he kisses the side of Mycroft’s neck, “that…” Another kiss to the side of his mouth. John gives him a cheeky look. “...now you’re not pregnant, there’s a lot of new things we can do.” 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “That is a deeply adventurous thought indeed.” 

“Hm, I thought so.” John rolls over him, effectively trapping Mycroft’s body under his. John’s cock is by Mycroft’s naked stomach and presses against him. “Like this.” 

He is right. This is the first time Mycroft has felt John’s full weight, and the pressure of John’s body is quite pleasurable. He would rather just like to open his legs and… Mycroft pulls John’s head down to his and kisses him. 

In reply, John rolls off him and uses his hand to trace over Mycroft’s erection. Mycroft takes John’s hand and, without having to say the words, presses it lower between his legs. _Please_. 

John says, “Yeah?” He is clearly aroused by the thought. 

“If you wish.” 

“Oh, definitely.” John grins. “Do you have…?” 

Mycroft turns, reaches out to the side table, and collects the small bottle of lubricant out of the top drawer. He ordered it a few days ago. He did not need it when he was pregnant, but he assumes he will now. 

John does not seem to think it is odd at all. Mycroft hands it to John, and he opens the cap, smiles, drips some of the lubricant onto his fingers, and slowly spreads it around. Mycroft cannot be entirely certain that he will enjoy this now, but considering that only the tickle of John’s fingers is enough to make him shudder, he is reasonably convinced that he will. 

John presses a finger inside of him fairly easily. There is little resistance. It is slightly more difficult when there are two, but John works him open gradually while observing his reaction. It should be embarrassing. A moment to forget, to omit, but John’s fingers slowly turn, and Mycroft can feel his entire body react to the pressure. His skin breaks out into goose bumps. 

John smiles warmly. “Hm.” 

Mycroft cannot stop looking at him. _John. You have made my life so much richer_. Mycroft puts a hand over John’s neck, pulls him close, and kisses him. 

John then adds another finger and starts thrusting them in and out roughly. 

“ _Ah_ …” 

“Yeah?” John asks. 

Mycroft assumes that there is little doubt about his arousal - his erection is lying flat on his loose stomach, red and hard. He had intended to open his legs like this for John in order to celebrate the lack of his pregnant stomach in the way, but Mycroft can feel the urge to turn around, and to let himself be taken. Mycroft pulls away and turns, feeling the deep steady thrum of desire. Yes, this is what he wants from John tonight. 

Mycroft presents for him, then he looks John in the eye and says, “Please, John.”

John is already breathing hard. “ _God_ , yes.” 

John gets on his knees behind him, lines his erection up, and presses in carefully. It feels tight in a way that it did not when Mycroft was brimming with hormones. Then, he was so wet that John tended to slip out of him. This is different. It is a slow burn, a settling of his body. But breath by breath, Mycroft can feel himself give in. 

John asks, “Lie down on your stomach?” 

Mycroft awkwardly lowers himself with John mostly inside of him. John follows and leans on him with his full weight again – another thing they have never done. Mycroft can barely move. He feels covered by John, inside and out. And that is the point, he assumes, as John starts working his hips up and down in small thrusts. 

Mycroft soon craves more. He opens his legs, then lifts his back at every thrust, and John laughs into his ear, “You want it?” 

“Please.” 

John pushes a long, slow thrust in. When he reaches the furthest he can go, he places a wet kiss on the back of Mycroft’s neck, right where Mycroft’s bonding scar is. It runs through him in a deep, long shiver. John gives him another slow thrust, then noses Mycroft’s neck. 

“That nice, right there?” John leans in - Mycroft can feel the stretch of his body when he tries to reach - and briefly rubs his nose against Mycroft’s neck again to underline the question. 

“Yes.” Mycroft can feel another spark of _need_. It is not going to accomplish anything - it can’t, John is a beta. Mycroft is simply responding to the suggestion. So is John, he assumes. Mycroft takes a small breath, and then asks what he has never imagined himself asking, “Bond to me, John?” 

“Oh, god.” John sounds entirely wrecked already. Without hesitation, John leans in and bites him. 

It stings, and the brief moment of pain carries a spark of bright yearning. It is nowhere near a true bonding, but Mycroft can feel his whole body thrum with it regardless. Especially because John can barely _reach_ , he has to stretch for it. The feeling is exquisite - John straining forward, pressing himself in as deep as he possibly can go, and then giving him that sharp pinch. “ _Yes_.” 

“On your knees?” John pulls away somewhat but stays inside of him, and Mycroft gets up. John runs a hand over his behind quickly, which is enough to make him shiver, then pushes himself in again fully. John leans his whole weight on Mycroft, nearly toppling him, and then _just_ reaches far enough to lick his neck. 

Next thrust, Mycroft receives a bite again, but it is still controlled - John is clearly nowhere near as prepared as Sherlock was to bite his neck until it bleeds. Mycroft isn’t certain why the image is so appealing to him, but he cannot think of anything else now the suggestion is here. He wants John to claim him. “Harder.” 

“Yeah?” John thrusts in hard enough it feels like a wave of pressure, and then bites his teeth into Mycroft’s neck. 

Mycroft can feel his body tense, trying to draw more of John inside of him. His face is flushed and his body is throbbing with the sheer insult of what they are truly doing, but he cannot help but desire it. “Please.” _Please give it to me, John._

John puts a hand on his neck and gently pushes him down. “Your face in the pillows.” 

Mycroft lies on his arms. John shuffles behind him, and then plasters himself over him, thrusts deeply, and Mycroft immediately can feel the difference in angle. He nearly screams. Instead, he swallows and says, “ _John_ …” 

He is not certain of what he needs, or wants, there is nothing but a building pressure. Mycroft can feel his cock rise and touch his belly with a wet press before lowering again. John thrusts and leans in, and he just manages to capture the side of Mycroft’s neck and scrape his teeth there harshly. But he has to let go again in a moment, and it is not enough. Mycroft shakes in frustration. 

John says, “Wait, I know.” He pulls out of him, and the loss is entirely gripping. Mycroft can feel himself contract around nothing. It distracts him enough that he does not immediately realise what John is looking for in the side table until he returns holding the dildo. “This okay?”

Mycroft can barely speak anymore. He nods. 

John is already using the lubricant and coating the dildo with it. At the first touch of the dildo, Mycroft shudders. It is colder than John’s erection. But as John pushes it inside of him, the feeling transforms into that of a deep stretch. John moves up the bed, and then his lips touch Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft cannot help it, he moans into the pillow. “Nh!” 

“Yes.” John sounds pleased. “Oh, look at that...” 

He moves the dildo in further, and then properly fits his teeth to the back of Mycroft’s neck and bites. Mycroft’s vision greys out with pleasure. John is tilting the dildo inside of him, pushing it deeper and deeper, right to the knot. John’s teeth break the skin of his neck, making his entire self throb and ache with want. Mycroft pushes his back up, seeking _more_. 

John breathes by his neck, licks him there, then asks, “That’s what you want?” John pushes the knot of the dildo in and bites down again, this time without reservation. 

Mycroft is helpless as the pressure builds. He groans, something low and guttural. His testicles draw up painfully hard. He spasms around the knot, pulls it in, and all of it – the dildo filling him and stretching him, John’s teeth claiming him - erupts into an overwhelming wave of orgasm. Mycroft can feel himself shake wildly as the wave reaches its peak, and then his ejaculate sprays himself, the bed, and his stomach. He falls down, his knees unable to keep him upright anymore. 

John works the dildo out of him carefully, but Mycroft barely feels it, his entire body is still pounding with the aftershocks of pleasure. John asks, “You okay?” 

Mycroft needs to swallow several times before he can answer. “Very much so.” 

John pulls him close and holds him. 

Selflessly, because Mycroft does know that John is still fully hard. John’s erection is pressed between them. Mycroft turns onto his back, and manoeuvres John on top of him. Mycroft kisses John, opens his legs, and John slides inside of him without much resistance. The feeling is still remarkable. Mycroft allows him to thrust inside of him, saying things like, “God, you’re marvellous, the way that looked…”

Mycroft pulls John into him as much as he can, then lifts his legs and holds John close like that as well until John shudders, orgasms, and slumps onto him. “Hmm…”

John moves away after a long moment, but it is only to lie onto his side and pull him in again. They tangle their legs, and Mycroft can feel his heartbeat slow. 

He is not certain what they did. It cannot have been a true bonding, it is biologically impossible between them. 

But Mycroft already knows that he will always consider it exactly that. 

 

-

 

John departs in the morning, and Mycroft returns to work with undeniable red teeth marks on his neck. But then he has done so regularly after bonding with Sherlock, so there is no reason why he should feel any real shame at it. They are marks of pride. 

As the day goes on, he does in fact mostly forget about it. 

But when he is back at 221b, the feeling changes. Did John tell Sherlock what they did? Was it of any importance, truly? Or simply a sexual fantasy, in which case Sherlock will not want to be informed? 

Mycroft walks in to see William on the sofa, surrounded by pillows. Sherlock was playing the violin to him, and Mycroft stills to listen to it, but Sherlock stops playing and places his violin back into its case. 

John isn’t here. 

Sherlock walks up to him and leans in to look at his neck. He was clearly informed by John of what happened. Mycroft holds his breath, knowing the judgement will come. Sherlock eyes him, then _smiles_. “Tell John he needs to bite harder next time if he wants it to leave a scar.” 

Sherlock leans in himself, and he fits his teeth over the scar that is there. Mycroft can feel the familiar sensation flood him. It feels very different from John. It is not sexual - Sherlock is confirmation. Sherlock is the deep pull of _home_. 

When Sherlock finishes bonding, he asks, “The sex is working, then?” 

Mycroft feels as if he can barely face Sherlock after such a question, but he does, and he finds nothing but a mild curiosity in Sherlock’s face. Mycroft can feel a well-known measure of wonder at it. _Oh, Sherlock, how much I owe you_. “I believe so.” 

Sherlock nods, but not without holding his eye for a moment more. “Thank you.” 

Mycroft feels unbearably unworthy of being thanked for such a thing. He should be the one thanking them both, endlessly. It causes him to say, “Sherlock, there is no reason to thank me. I...” He breathes, and then continues, “I love you both. And everything I do is because of it.” 

Sherlock seems taken aback that Mycroft would use the word - love. Then he glances at Mycroft’s neck, moves in again, and bites him in a quick confirmation. Mycroft closes his eyes at the throb of emotion. _Understood._

Then Sherlock mumbles against his neck, “Me, too. I love you.” 

Sherlock turns away and picks William up. He clearly does so in order to have something else to focus on, but Mycroft does not mind. He feels both shocked by Sherlock’s words, and entirely at peace in this moment. He can feel an odd release. 

Mycroft can hear John and Violet walking up the stairs. Mycroft catches Sherlock’s smile at hearing them approach. John calls out from the landing, “You two home?” and Violet shouts, “Father?” 

“Yes, we are here.” Mycroft shares a look with Sherlock, then glances at William, lifts Violet into his arms, and prepares to be kissed hello by John. This is it. 

Their life. 

Their family. 

They do not need to say any more.

 

 

 

 

 


	127. (John)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The final chapter... I can't believe we're at the end of this journey! It has been such a joy to be able to write this for you all._
> 
> _I want to thank my above-and-beyond beta Pickles7437, who had a baby herself in the middle of posting this fic and still decided to beta on. She has been an invaluable source of baby facts, an eagle-eyed corrector of grammar, and she has made my writing a lot more precise and intricate, especially in regard to Sherlock's and Mycroft's voices. I commissioned[this artwork from The Diogenes](http://indybaggins.tumblr.com/post/163560746953/i-commissioned-thediogenes-to-draw-this-as-a) for her as a present (surprise! *g*)_
> 
> _And I want to thank my fabulous Brit-picker Jie_Jie, who read this fic on various trains, planes, and that one boat in Vietnam, just to make sure I wasn't making any mistakes. She has such an eye for detail, she is the best researcher, and she has the gift of endless patience with me and my English-isn't-my-first-language brain._
> 
> _The two of them have done so much. It was my writing, but their dedication behind the scenes is what has made this story what it is. I can't even count the amount of hours they must have put into this for no reason other than a 'thank you'._
> 
> _And last but not least, I want to thank ALL OF YOU. Everyone who has ever left a comment, or clicked on 'kudos', everyone who has ever given this story a chance. And most of all, the people whose names popped up in the comments time and time again. You made my days, my weeks, my months, my year. <3_
> 
> _Now, on to the last chapter!_
> 
> _Indy x_

 

 

John’s amazed that Mycroft asked him to do that. And then at the same time, it makes sense, doesn’t it? John definitely feels like he’s bonded to him, too. And it was, god, one of the most special things John has ever done in his life. It wasn’t just sex. Mycroft let him _claim_ him. The thought is overwhelming. 

John feels so lucky that Mycroft trusted him enough for it. 

He can tell that Sherlock and Mycroft have talked about it when he walks into 221b after Violet’s dance class, and he can sense some emotion between them. Nothing bad, though. John watches them while Sherlock fusses over William, and Mycroft asks Violet, “Now, what did you learn today?” 

Their body language is open, still. They’re moving in sync, as if they can’t fully be separated yet. John’s sure it’s entirely unconscious, but he likes seeing it. 

Mycroft eats with them, and then leaves again for a meeting. When he’s gone, John asks Sherlock, “You okay?” 

Sherlock nods. Then he smiles and says, “The wedding pictures have arrived.”

There’s a large box in the hall. John wondered about that, but then he’s learned not to ask too many questions about mystery boxes throughout the years. 

There are a _lot_ of them. 

All framed - Sherlock ordered them that way. John likes having the pictures, too, but he has no real idea what they’re going to do with them. He loves the one they already have hanging up over the sofa, because it’s just _them_ , the way they are. But these… Sherlock didn’t pick the most logical wedding pictures, or the usual ones. It’s more snapshots that interest him. Plenty of them, apparently. “Where are we even hanging these?” 

Sherlock has a dangerous grin and - oh no - a cordless drill he picked up somewhere. “In the bedroom.” 

Which is how John ends up with a crying William strapped to his chest, trying to keep Violet from falling over as she jumps on the bed while they watch Sherlock handle power tools. 

After ten minutes of “Does this fit here? Or there?” while minding a howling baby and a slowly spinning-out-of-control Violet, John says, “You know what, you can do this just fine without me. Surprise me, yeah?” 

John takes the kids to the living room, feeds William a bottle, pours Violet a glass of juice, and reads her a story. 

They can hear the occasional heavy whine of the drill, but John tries to smile calmly and project to Violet that _of course_ they’ll all be able to sleep in the bedroom in between bits of plaster and dust after Sherlock’s done with it - if he doesn’t take out the whole wall, that is. 

John manages to get William down in his crib for about five minutes, but when the next round of drilling happens, William startles and wakes up again, so John admits defeat and just keeps him in the sling.

Half an hour later, John still has both William and Violet on his lap. Violet is frequently rubbing her eyes while John reads her _The Little Mermaid_ for the umpteenth time, when Sherlock steps out of the room, still wielding the drill, and says, “Finished!”

Violet slides off his lap. John carries William, and they go have a look. It’s a mess. The duvet looks as if it’s been in a war of some sort. There’s white dust everywhere. 

But the effect is rather overwhelming. 

For years, the periodic table hung over the bed, but now it’s a giant... _collage_ , John supposes. 

Sherlock’s got a great eye for nearly everything, but apparently not that much for hanging up picture frames in exactly straight rows, because there’s a definite dip to some of them. But John can’t be bothered to complain about that. Not when he sees it all like this. 

It’s the wedding, but there are older pictures as well - John can see the picture of Sherlock and Mycroft as kids that they’ve had in the bedroom for forever. There’s one of a newborn Violet. The one where Sherlock’s around twelve and looking at a chemistry set, too. There’s one of John right after his graduation where he looks terribly young. A few from the beginning - Sherlock looking so pale and thin then, an otherworldly sort of thing. John can see the love on his own face in those. But most are from their wedding day. There is the picture where Sherlock is feeding William. The one with the three of them talking by the car, as well. One of Sherlock and Mycroft dancing. One of John smiling widely at Sherlock. Their kiss. Their hands during the vows. 

“So many!” Violet says, her voice thin with sleep. 

John realises he hasn’t said a word. He smiles and says, “It’s perfect.” Even the wobbly ones that look like they might fall down and hit them in their sleep – John will fix those. 

Sherlock beams at him. “I thought so.” 

It is. John can’t stop looking at all of that, above their bed. Their wedding, their _life_. 

He glances at Violet, and then at William in his arms. Their kids, too. “Right, come on, Violet. Time for bed.” 

She barely protests. John lets Sherlock tuck her in while he puts William down, then he grabs the duvet and shakes it out on the landing. There are clouds of plaster dust coming out of it. It’ll be good enough for the night, though. 

John goes back in, and as Sherlock closes the door behind him quietly, John sits down and lies back against the sofa cushions. He’s tired. He smiles. “Can I get tucked into bed now? 

Sherlock grins. “If you want, I’ll read you a story.” 

Hm. That actually sounds nice. John pats the space next to him, and Sherlock dutifully sits down onto the sofa. He vaguely smells like plaster dust. “Tell me the story of John and Sherlock.” John’s kidding, mainly. 

Sherlock says, “I met John Watson on the twenty-ninth of January two thousand and ten. I did not know yet that he was the man of my life.” 

John lies back and smiles. “Hm, _damn right_ he was.” 

Sherlock goes on, and John listens to the tone of Sherlock’s voice, watches the light in Sherlock’s eyes, and he doesn’t doubt it - Sherlock is the man of his life, too. John has always known that. It was just the _how_ that was hard. How to do this, how to be together. 

But they did it in the end. Eventually, with the three of them, they got here. 

 

-

 

They quietly return to the bedroom and get under the dusty duvet – John is still a tad wary of the more adventurously hung picture frames, but they seem better than he thought from this angle. They’ll definitely hold for tonight, he thinks. 

After a few hours of sleep, William wakes up and cries for his middle-of-the-night bottle. John goes. Sherlock gets up, too. He sits with them until they’re done and go back to bed. 

Violet’s awake at five. She crawls into the bed and asks, “John? It’s morning, it’s light, I can see the sun!” 

John pulls the covers over his face. “It’s not morning yet. Sleep.” 

Sherlock lets out a faint grumble and turns around in the bed. John allows Violet to lie down between them, and she does doze off again. 

At six forty-three, William wakes up and starts the hesitant cry that means that if they get him soon enough, he might sleep again, but if not, he’ll move on to full-blown wailing. So John drags himself out of bed. He lifts William out of his crib, changes his nappy without even really thinking about what he’s doing - his hands can do it by themselves at this point - then takes him back to the bed. 

Sherlock opens one eye, and then closes it again. John puts William in next to Violet, lies down himself on the small bit of bed that’s still free. 

William wiggles and bats at the covers. Violet has a bit of a snore. Sherlock turns towards them and puts an arm over Violet. John looks at them. William’s blue eyes are open, and his arms are urgently waving about. Violet is just a mess of curls at the bottom of the pillow and a leg dangerously close to John’s crotch - she tends to kick. 

Sherlock meets his eyes, and John smiles at him. It’s early, he’s tired, and there’s no way both kids are going to be quiet like this for more than oh, three precious minutes, so John intends to enjoy them. Sherlock seems to be thinking something similar, because he smiles a young, sweet sort of smile, then reaches his arm over both kids down to John, and takes his hand. 

...And that’s when one of the picture frames makes an odd slide, bangs into another, and falls down right behind Sherlock’s head with a giant racket. 

At Sherlock’s deeply insulted look towards the wall, John laughs hard enough to shake the bed. William decides he’s had enough of being quiet and starts a loud wail, and Violet says, whining already, “I don’t _want_ to wake up!”

 

-

 

Two hours later, John sits in the kitchen with his breakfast. 

Or well, he’s had a few half-drunk cups of tea since waking up, and he’s made several attempts at eating, only there’s always something that needs doing. William needed to be fed and changed again and held, and then Violet needed food, then John needed a shower, so now with Sherlock in the shower and Violet playing in the living room, John is finally eating. While holding William in his arm. 

He’s got beans on toast, a nice cup of tea, and Violet’s quiet enough that John can actually hear Mrs. Hudson’s radio downstairs. It’s the nine AM BBC weather, and John can hear ‘expected sunshine’, but the rest of the words are too muddled to make out. John thinks that maybe once her hearing starts going a bit, she’ll turn it up, and he’ll be able to know what the damn weather will be for once. 

It looks nice enough though. John can see a blue sky with some small white clouds through the window. They dressed Violet in shorts and a top, so she can play. 

John takes a bite from his toast, a bit awkward as one arm is holding William who’s on that post-bottle edge of drowsily conking out. 

There’s a sound on the stairs. The door opens, and it’s Mycroft. “Good morning, John.” 

John smiles. “Morning, you.” 

Mycroft comes closer, then leans over and gives him a gentle kiss. It’s nice. It makes John grin with just how domestic it is, too. Mycroft seems to think the same, as he eyes him warmly, then puts a hand on William’s side and smiles at him. He goes to see Violet, who looks up and reaches her arms out for a quick hug. 

John asks, “Where are we going then, today?” 

Mycroft offers, “I was thinking perhaps to drive to a park? I remember it being a pleasant excursion last year, in summer.” John remembers - Mycroft’s arms got sunburned that day. And they got caught in the rain. 

Mycroft talks to Violet about a seagull they can spot through the window, and Sherlock comes out of the bathroom with a comb and two hair ties. As he sees Mycroft, he says, “Good, help me do this.” 

John grins and eats the last of his toast. He watches them both put Violet on the living room table, comb her hair, and try to make it into two small buns. “No, it’s not like-” 

Mycroft protests, “It _is_ , Sherlock, you need to gather the hair-” 

Violet shouts, “I don’t _want_ hair!” 

John takes a sip of his tea, careful not to wake William. He looks around at the mess - the sheer, absolute _mess_ of the place. There are half-empty bottles by the sink, needing a wash. A bib rolled into a ball lying next to him. Traces of milk powder all over. There’s a plate of Violet’s half-eaten breakfast. A series of abandoned coffee cups. A bowl of Coco Pops from last night, growing soggy. A bit further there’s a doll, a sleeping shirt with a pony on it, and a spare dummy. 

Towards the living room there are heaps, literal _heaps_ of toys and blankets with piles of books and files between them. 

William’s crib is next to the fireplace, under the skull. It’s currently filled with three of Violet’s dolls and a teddy bear, as well as the Russian hacking file and some Lego bricks.

Sherlock and Mycroft finish their mutual project of hair care and let Violet go. Sherlock leans into Mycroft and bonds to him for a long, quiet moment. Their profiles are outlined by the bright morning sun. 

John can feel the warm weight of William in his arm. He can hear Violet running around and singing a song that she just made up. He can see Sherlock and Mycroft, breaking apart now, both with a pleased look towards him. 

John’s been back in Baker Street for three-and-a-half years now. Strange, how quickly that went. 

But he’s _happy_. Goddammit, he is. With this mess, this sheer _insane_ life of love and laughter and all of them, together. 

He’s absolutely happy. 

Sherlock asks, “Ready, John?” Mycroft takes Violet’s hand and looks at him, too. John shifts William in his arm, and considers them all standing there. The impossible. His _family_. 

John smiles, then gets up. 

“I’m ready.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
